


The ‘Til Death Do I Trust Affair

by LadyRa



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-06
Updated: 2003-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-16 20:37:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRa/pseuds/LadyRa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gervaise Ravel wants her revenge on Illya for killing Harold Buffington, the man she loved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The ‘Til Death Do I Trust Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Set a year after The Thrush Roulette Affair, because in my little world, IK and NS stay together. (And thanks to the MFUfic and Channel W gang who supplied me with episode info). This story is a long time follow up to The Quadripartite Affair and The Giuoco Piano Affair, but you don't need to have seen them to know what's going on.

Napoleon stretched out his legs and took a last sip of his brandy. "I'd better head for home. We've got an early day tomorrow."

Illya drained his glass of Stoli as well. "Why did Waverly schedule the briefing for so early in the morning?"

Napoleon grinned. "To torture us? I know he's not planning to be there."

The phone rang. Both men looked at the phone with some surprise. Napoleon didn't think the phone had ever rung when he'd been at Illya's. Ever. 

Illya picked it up. "Kuryakin."

Napoleon watched as Illya listened for a minute. His partner had an odd look in his eyes. Napoleon was tempted to casually move into the bedroom and pick up the extension. But then, before he could move, Illya hung up.

"Who was it?"

"Wrong number."

Napoleon gave Illya a look of disbelief. "You never said a word. How did they know it was a wrong number?"

Illya shrugged. "I don't know. They hung up."

"Well, what did they say before they hung up?"

Illya shrugged again. "Nothing important." 

Napoleon considered Illya for a moment. Curiouser and curiouser. Illya still had an odd look in his eyes. "No, really. What did they say?"

Illya waved a hand, dismissing it. "Come on, I need to show you something before you go home."

"You can show me tomorrow. It's late." Napoleon stood and reached for his coat.

"No, I need to show it to you now."

Napoleon cocked his head to the side and stared at his partner. "Does this have something to do with that phone call?" He glanced around suspiciously. "Is this a practical joke? Was that Mark?"

Illya shook his head. "No. It was a wrong number. I just remembered that I have to show you something. It's important."

Napoleon shrugged into his coat. "Okay. But, this better not take long, or you'll be giving the entire briefing in the morning."

Illya walked to the door and opened it up, taking a step into the hall.

"Don't you want your coat? It's cold outside."

"No."

Napoleon made a face at Illya's terse answer. "Excuse me, oh King of Siberia." He followed his partner out the door and scrunched his face up when the Russian headed down the hall. "Illya? Aren't you forgetting something?"

Illya turned. "What?"

"Locking your door?" He shook his head. "Never mind, I'll get it." Napoleon drew out his own set of keys and searched for the one to Illya's apartment. He locked the door and then moved quickly to follow his partner, who was disappearing down the stairs. "Hey, where's the fire?"

Illya didn't answer. Napoleon sighed. Illya was being particularly inscrutable. Napoleon knew there was no point in haranguing his partner either for information or for excuses for his behavior. When Illya didn't want to talk, there wasn't much that would make him talk. 

When they got outside, Napoleon lifted the collar of his coat, protecting his neck from the heavy falling snow. "You sure you don't want your jacket?" He blew out a ring with his frosty breath, and then realized Illya was already half way down the block. Wishing he had his gloves and a scarf, and definitely a hot toddy, Napoleon cursed, and ran after Illya.

When he reached him he grabbed his arm. "What is this about, Illya? It's freezing."

"We are almost there, Napoleon."

Napoleon let out another long sigh, and hunkered down in his coat, dreaming of his warm bed. He spent a few seconds dreaming about whom he'd like to be sharing it with. Pamela? No…Kathy? He shook his head. Donna? He grinned. Donna. He looked up and realized he'd lost his partner. "Damn it." He sprinted to the end of the block, only narrowly avoiding slipping on some ice and falling on his ass. 

Napoleon could see Illya entering a door half way down the block toward the right. Napoleon muttered under his breath. "Oh, sure, he leaves me out in the snow." He hurried down the block and grimaced at the garbage surrounding the door. Even the freshly fallen snow couldn't make this alley scenic. Napoleon tried the door and was relieved to find it unlocked. 

The hairs on the back of Napoleon's neck began to rise. He pulled out his gun and standing to the side, gingerly opened the door. Illya stood there, in the dark. Napoleon began to feel annoyed. "Can you get to the punch line, Illya? I’m starting to lose my sense of humor."

Illya plucked the gun out of Napoleon's hand. "You won't need that."

Napoleon stepped into the room, and shut the door behind him. It was only nominally warmer in here. He brushed off some snow that had collected on his shoulders. "Well, that's very reassuring, but what the hell are we doing here?"

A muffled voice came out of the darkness, distorted through some electronic gadget. "We'll take it from here."

Napoleon spun at the sound, his eyes narrowing, trying to determine the source of the voice. "Illya, what's going on?"

A fist came out of nowhere, slamming into his face, spinning him around, knocking him into the door. Napoleon tasted blood and felt a sharp sting, and knew his lip was split. He spit out blood. Napoleon searched for his partner, afraid for him. He was shocked to see him simply standing there, watching.

In that moment of distraction, he was hit from the back, a painful punch to his right kidney. It brought him to his knees. Before he could struggle to his feet, a broad kick to his back knocked him flat. A foot pressed hard against his neck, immobilizing him. Napoleon gasped out a plea. "Illya, do something."

The voice came out of the darkness again. "He already has, Mr. Solo. Delivered you to us, just as I asked."

Napoleon's heart pounded. He shook his head in denial. His whole body was shaking. "Illya?"

Illya just stood there, Napoleon's gun in his hand.

The taunting voice seemed to come from everywhere. "You've fulfilled your part of the bargain, Kuryakin. Very efficiently."

Napoleon spat out more blood, and struggled up against the foot on his neck. The pressure was removed, but only for the foot to viciously kick him in the side. Napoleon let out a pained grunt. He began to roll, knowing he had to get up to defend himself. He was struck by a heavy net, which shrouded his entire body. 

Desperate, he sought the edges, trying to get out from under it. But it grew tighter, caging him within the ropes. Something started to drag him farther into the room. He put out his fingers, trying to get some traction to stop this nightmare, but the rough cement only abraded his fingertips. 

He threw another frantic look at his partner. "Illya. Help me." He still refused to believe that Illya had no intention of helping, that he was going to stand there and do nothing. He was dragged farther into the darkness. 

Despite the fact that his partner was doing nothing to help, Napoleon was suddenly seized with an irrational fear of being parted from him and yelled, "Illya. Don't let them take me." He received a painful kick to his thigh, followed by another one near his knee. Napoleon curled into a ball, trying to protect himself. It also brought his hand closer to his boot, to the knife he had hidden there. 

Before he could reach for it, he felt the sting of a dart. Napoleon felt the paralysis setting in, the numbness radiating out from the injection site, his muscles beginning to grow heavy and slack. As his vision began to blur, even now looking to Illya for assistance, Napoleon searched for him. At first he thought he was seeing double but then he realized that somebody was speaking to his partner. Illya nodded, and then without a look back at Napoleon, he opened the door and walked out of the building.

Napoleon's eyes stung with tears. With his last conscious thought, he cried out. "Illya!" Then everything grew dark.

* * *

Napoleon was late. Illya looked at the clock again. Really late. They had driven separately as it was Friday, and Napoleon always had dates on Friday nights. Illya thought back to last night, wondering if he had missed something.

Napoleon had known there was an early morning briefing; they had discussed it. Illya couldn’t seem to remember any specifics of what they talked about after that, but Napoleon had definitely known. Illya picked up a phone and called his partner’s number. He hung up after letting it ring twenty times.

He glanced at the clock one more time. Time to start the briefing. He cursed under his breath, promising to get back at Napoleon for leaving him on his own for this. Once it was over he was going to go to Napoleon’s apartment and thoroughly enjoy throwing cold water on him if he was still in bed.

* * *

Illya let himself into Napoleon’s apartment. “Napoleon?” There was no answer. He headed right for the bedroom. It was empty. The bathroom was empty, too. Going back to the bedroom, Illya began to search for clues as to Napoleon's whereabouts. The bed was made, but Napoleon could have made it this morning after he got up. 

Illya went back into the bathroom and pulled back the shower curtain. The bath was completely dry, which was unlikely if Napoleon had taken a shower, and Napoleon always took a shower in the morning. Illya began to get that nervous feeling, the one that always prefaced bad news. 

He walked down the hallway and opened the hall closet. Napoleon's coat was missing. So that meant that either Napoleon had never gotten home last night, or something happened on the way from his home to headquarters this morning. Illya cursed when he realized that he hadn't bothered to check the garage for Napoleon's car.

Locking the door behind him he raced to the garage only to find an empty space in Napoleon's reserved parking spot. The nervous feeling grew. The missing car supported his previous assumptions, but based on the dryness of the shower, Illya was betting that Napoleon had never returned to his apartment last night. 

Illya went back to his own home, starting a more thorough search there. He began painstakingly to look for any signs of a skirmish, any evidence Napoleon or any possible abductors may have left behind. 

Illya's lips tightened as he found himself back at Napoleon's apartment with nothing to show for his efforts. He pulled out his communicator and called headquarters, alerting them to Napoleon's absence and the probability of foul play. 

When the conversation was done, Illya recapped the communicator and headed back down to his car. If someone other than THRUSH were holding Napoleon it was possible they would contact UNCLE headquarters with their demands. If it were THRUSH, eventually news of their latest scheme would find its way to headquarters and Illya intended to be there when it did. 

As he rode in the elevator down to the garage, Illya couldn't help but wonder if Napoleon had called out to him while he was being overpowered, while Illya had been comfortably and obliviously ensconced in his apartment. The thought of letting down his partner, even through ignorance, was not a comfortable one.

* * *

It had been an exhaustive and unproductive day. There had been no news, no demands, and every free agent had been out scouring the city, calling on their contacts, trying to unearth information. Illya had gone over the very long list of ne'er-do-wells that wanted him and Napoleon dead and tried to ascertain their whereabouts. There were too many unaccounted for to even begin narrowing it down.

Illya had finally headed for home at Mr. Waverly's insistence and promise that he would be called if any information came in. He let himself in and dropped, disheartened, on the couch. He didn't even have the energy to pour himself a drink. The two glasses he and Napoleon had used last night were still sitting on the coffee table, water rings surrounding them.

Illya furrowed his brow, thinking it odd that he had left them there. While not too fastidious a housekeeper, he was pretty consistent with cleaning up used dishes. Too many years of living with cockroaches had taught him that. Picking them up now he walked to the kitchen and placed them in the sink. 

He found himself vehemently wishing that Napoleon would walk in the door, easy explanation on his lips, hand outstretched for a fresh drink. He scowled when the front door remained closed and Illya suddenly felt very lonely. For a brief moment he imagined what it would be like if Napoleon never walked through his door again. Even that brief second was too long, the imagined empty life leering like a gaping black hole. Illya let out a pained curse. 

Without another word he left the kitchen, entered his bedroom, and threw himself on the bed. All he wanted was to fall asleep and wake up to find Napoleon pounding on his door, teasing him that he had overslept. Instead, Illya was certain he would be denied the respite of sleep, and that there would be no best friend at the door, an irresistible smile on his lips. 

Illya reached forward to pull his pillow down, wanting to cover his head, as if that might help keep his thoughts at bay. His hands encountered something hard and his fingers ran over the object. Illya lifted his head, pushing the pillow aside with his other hand. It was a gun. 

Illya turned the light on and inspected the weapon. His face scrunched up in confusion when he realized it was Napoleon's gun. He couldn't imagine why he had his partner's gun under his pillow. He sat up, trying to fill the gaps in his memory. 

They were still fuzzy. Frustrated, Illya examined Napoleon's gun, imaging the dark haired agent in his mind. Illya let out a gasp when the image he had created was supplanted by another. He saw Napoleon on the ground, trussed in a net, his face bloodied, calling out to his partner to help him.

The image was so real, so vivid, that Illya stood, his heart pounding so hard his chest hurt. Where had that come from? More images appeared. Him leading Napoleon down an alley, him standing as Napoleon was attacked, him ignoring his partner's anguished pleas, leaving Napoleon behind as he walked home, entered his apartment, got ready for bed, put Napoleon's gun under his pillow and fell asleep, without giving his injured friend another thought.

Illya shook his head, dropping the gun, sagging back on the bed. This couldn't be true; it wasn't possible. He tried to push the images away but they were relentless, and all of a sudden, his memory of last evening wasn't fuzzy at all. It was painfully, shockingly clear. 

He drew in a shuddering breath. Then he was up and running, out the apartment door, not even closing it, let alone locking it. He followed his path of last night, his sense of direction unerring, hoping against hope that it might all prove unfounded; that there wouldn't be a building where he'd acted the Judas. 

Despite his avowed atheism, Illya was praying as he rounded the last corner. But the prayer was in vain. The building was there; the door was there. He approached it as if it might strike out at him like a death adder. His hand was shaking as he reached for the doorknob. It was unlocked and he turned it slowly.

Still clinging to the shattered pieces of his hope he stepped inside. It was pitch black. Fumbling for a light switch he was gratified to find one, and surprised when flicking the switch actually resulted in a yellowish glare from an unprotected light bulb in the ceiling.

He didn't want to look, deathly afraid that he'd find Napoleon's body in a corner of the room, not sure what he'd do if that were the case. There was a mental flash of him in his apartment, Napoleon's gun in his mouth. 

Illya shook his head and forced himself to look. He released the breath he hadn't even known he was holding as he saw that the room was empty. He only allowed himself a flicker of relief before he looked harder. He moved to stand where his memories placed Napoleon. 

Acid rose in his throat when he saw the splatters of blood from the split lip, the blood trails from Napoleon's fingers as he had desperately tried to cling to the cement to keep from being dragged away. 

He had stood there and watched it all, had listened to his partner cry out to him for help, and done nothing. Illya turned, stumbling, and then he dropped to all fours, retching.

* * *

Alexander Waverly felt a surge of anger as he watched Illya Kuryakin toss and turn in the infirmary bed. He had seen much cruelty in his reign as head of UNCLE, but this seemed particularly vicious. Especially as it involved two men that he had come to care for, in a profession that seldom lent itself to the softer emotions.

It vexed him deeply that they had so little information. Only that his two best agents were in agony. One from physical torture, and one from mental anguish. Whoever had planned this had planned it well.

Waverly turned as he heard footsteps. "Anything, Doctor?"

Mark Wilson shook his head in frustration. "I just listened to the tapes again. It's clear he was programmed, but I can't find the key. I suspect he's still susceptible. I tried every deep veridical I could to get to his subconscious mind but all I ended up doing was putting him to sleep. Maybe it's a mercy."

Both men peered in through the window as Illya let out a cry and thrashed in the bed. Waverly's lips tightened. "I suspect this particular ghost will haunt him awake or asleep."

A frustrated expression crossed the doctor's face. "It doesn't make any sense. When Barnaby Partridge brainwashed Illya, Illya shot at Napoleon but he missed. We both know Illya's too good a shot to do that. It's a textbook example of the fact that it's impossible to brainwash someone into doing something they would never ordinarily do. And for Illya, that includes betraying Napoleon."

"So how do you surmise they achieved their goal?"

"The only thing I can figure is that the programming must have been repeated over an extended period of time. And that means someone who has ready access to Illya. As he hasn't been taken prisoner for the last few weeks, there's really been no opportunity for anyone to work on him." There was a heavy pause and the doctor swallowed. "Unless it's someone he knows."

Waverly had quickly come to the same conclusion. "Have you discussed this with Illya? Did you get the names of everyone he sees on a regular basis?"

"Yes. They're all being checked out as we speak. The problem is that the majority of the list are employees here at UNCLE."

Waverly scowled at that thought.

Mark let out a similarly depressed sigh. "Did they find anything of use at the site where Napoleon was taken? Do you have any idea where they might have taken him?"

Waverly shook his head. "All we know is that he was dragged for some distance and then it appears he was lifted and placed in a vehicle. Forensics is going through all the evidence with a fine tooth comb but there was depressingly little to find." Waverly himself had gone to see the place in the hopes that his weary but experienced eyes might see something the others missed. 

"Why are they doing this?" Mark had taken care of both agents on numerous occasions, and while neither of them were particularly good patients, he had a vested interest in them.

Waverly shifted his weight to his other leg. He felt very old tonight. "Two possible reasons come to mind. The first is a calculated plot to destroy UNCLE's two top agents. If this is the case I suspect we will get proof of Mr. Solo's demise. It must be assumed they believe Mr. Kuryakin's guilt will destroy his future effectiveness."

He glanced at the doctor, his eyes beneath his bushy brows dark with worry. "The second is revenge. In that case the person responsible will no doubt try to contact Mr. Kuryakin to make his victory complete."

"So, in either case, the only possible way this can end okay is if we find Napoleon before they kill him."

"Quite right. Unfortunately, the man most suited to that job is…" Rather than finish his sentence, Waverly looked meaningfully at the man lying on the infirmary bed. "Even if he were not sedated, until we know the programming has been removed, if he found Mr. Solo, he might do him more harm. I'm afraid he cannot leave this room until you can assure me that he is free from his conditioning." Waverly cleared his throat. "Or until Mr. Solo is dead."

Mark slammed his open palm against the wall. "Sometimes I hate this job with a vengeance."

Waverly gave a tired nod. "I quite agree, Doctor. I quite agree."

* * *

Napoleon came to with a snap. His eyes opened and he saw that he was in some sort of hospital room. He let out a sigh of relief. "Illya?" He knew his partner had to be close by if he had been wounded.

Then he remembered and he covered his eyes with his hand as if it might block the memory of Illya standing there, watching him as he was beaten. The apparent betrayal made his heart hurt, but his longstanding faith in his partner forced him to believe that there had to be a reason.

"Ah, you're awake. I'm so glad. Now the next phase of my plan can begin."

Napoleon recognized that voice. He dropped his hand and pasted a smile on his face. "Gervaise Ravel."

"In the flesh." She smiled coquettishly, and batted her eyelashes. She was dressed in a figure flattering blue wool suit, a string of pearls around her neck. Standing next to her were two large men with thick necks, armed with machine guns, both pointed directly at Napoleon. 

"I thought you were still in jail."

She pouted and shook her head. "The accommodations were much too provincial for my taste."

"How'd you get out?"

"Let's just say that some young woman who had the misfortune of looking an awful lot like me hasn't seen the light of day for a long time." She let out a satisfied sigh. "But enough about me. Let's talk about you."

Napoleon twisted his lips to the side, considering her. "All right. Let's." He gestured for her to begin.

"I'm afraid my boys here were a little rough on you last night, so I thought I'd let you get a good night's sleep before we got started."

"What's your game? I know I'm a brilliant conversationalist but this seems a bit extreme just to partake in a little witty repartee."

"It's simple, really. I'm going to have you tortured, and then I'm going to have you killed. I just wanted you to be in good shape when we started. It's so much more entertaining to start with a fresh canvas."

Napoleon gave her a mocking grin. "Ah, you're taking up painting. Lovely hobby."

"No, photography, actually. I plan to take pictures of you."

"I'll expect union wages."

"I’m afraid you'll be doing this for free."

"Do I at least get to have a pretty woman to pose with?"

She gave him an annoyed brittle smile that quickly dropped off her face. She turned to go.

Napoleon needed more information and that meant keeping her in the room. "Bored already? I must be losing my touch."

"No, Mr. Solo. Not bored at all. In fact, I haven't had this much fun in a long time. Revenge really is a dish best served cold."

"Revenge? For what? Putting you in jail? That seems petty, even for you." Napoleon was thinking furiously, trying to understand how Illya had gotten involved in this.

Gervaise's eyes flashed. "Petty? You think having the person you care the most about gunned down in front of you, petty?"

"Buffington? This is about Buffington?"

Her voice was filled with dramatic rage. "Yes, it's about my Harold. Your partner killed him, so I'm killing you." She dabbed her eye with a tissue. "I know I wasn't as good to Harold as I might have been, but I've managed to work through my guilt." She gave Napoleon a gloatingly evil smile. "I don't think poor Mr. Kuryakin will be as lucky."

It all fell into place. "What the hell did you do to him, you bitch?" Napoleon lunged at her but was shoved back to his cot by the painful jab of a rifle point.

She laughed. "The right drugs, the right words. It's amazing what modern science can do. And I think he must truly hate you, Mr. Solo. He was so easily trained."

"I don't believe you. He would never betray me." 

"Oh, but he did. You saw him. He stood there and did nothing while my boys here worked you over. If he was standing here, he'd let me kill you, and never lift a finger."

Napoleon was furious. "Only because you did something to him. Only because you fucked with his mind." He spit the words out.

"It is heartwarming to see your loyalty to him. Too bad it's so misplaced." Gervaise admired her nails for a moment. "I will, of course, tell him that you agree with me and despise him now."

Napoleon lunged for her once more, but he was again blocked, and a powerful fist was jammed in his stomach, doubling him over, stealing his breath away. 

Gervaise frowned at one of her nails, and fishing in her small purse, she pulled out a nail file and started working on the defect. "I plan to take pictures of my boys torturing you and send them to him as a small token of my appreciation. Then, in a few days, I will tell him you're dead." She looked up from her filing. "You may or may not be. I haven't decided. I may decide I like torturing you and keep you around for a while."

"He'll find me and get me out." Napoleon was sure of it. Despite what the bitch had done to his partner, Illya would find him. He always did.

"Oh, I don't think so." Nail smoothed to her satisfaction, she put the file back in her purse. She pulled out a small compact, and checked her make-up. "They can't figure out what I did to his mind. Your Mr. Waverly is afraid he'll try to kill you again. He's under heavy security in the infirmary." 

Napoleon's heart sank. The only way Gervaise could know that was if she had someone on the inside. Someone who could get to Illya. 

She confirmed it with her next words. "Don't worry. After he knows you're dead, I'll make sure he gets whatever he needs to get the job done."

Napoleon gritted his teeth. "To get what job done?"

"Why, to kill himself, of course." 

He almost got to her this time. Napoleon saw the flash of fear in her eyes. But then the butt of a rifle crashed into the back of his head, and he fell on the floor, stunned.

Napoleon fought to stay conscious as he was pulled up and dragged out of the room. Another door was opened and he was shoved inside. He tried to struggle against the two mountains of muscle, but within seconds he felt cuffs being snapped around his wrists and ankles. When the two men moved away, he found himself chained in the middle of the room, his wrists over his head, suspended by chains from the ceiling, his legs spread apart, the floor chains firmly secured to opposite walls. 

He tested the chains, but he only had an inch or two of give. Napoleon forced himself to relax. Glancing around he saw that Gervaise had followed them. He refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing his frustration. He let out a sigh. "I was sure I asked for a nicer room when I made my reservations."

Gervaise stayed a safe distance away. "I'm afraid the amenities have taken a turn for the worse. So sorry, Mr. Solo." 

Napoleon was just sorry she wasn't standing closer. He wanted to spit in her face. "Well, if this is the best you have to offer, I suppose I can make do." He looked around the room, as if considering the decorating possibilities.

She flicked her hand at one of her boys, annoyed at her captive's nonchalance. "Time to go to work, boys. I need it to look good for the pictures I'm going to take." She gave Napoleon a malicious glare. "I want your partner to see what he's done to you."

Napoleon tested the chains again, hoping for a miracle, hoping for a weak link, so he could lash out at her, take her pretty neck and snap it in two. "He's tougher than you think."

She shook her head, smiling. "No, he's not. Not when it comes to you." She brushed down her suit. "I don't want to get blood on my outfit. I'll come back in an hour." Gervaise sent an approving look at the two men. "You boys have fun. Just remember, I'm counting on you to make it last." She turned on her high-heeled shoes, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Napoleon looked at the two men. "I thought she'd never leave." He rattled his chains. "If you let me down we can play a few hands of poker."

One of the men moved to the corner of the room, and opened a suitcase. Napoleon winced. From where he was standing, the contents of the suitcase didn't look good. The man returned with a knife in hand and with a few quick motions, Napoleon's shirt was lying on the ground. Napoleon looked at it sadly. "I liked that shirt."

He grunted as a fist landed in his midsection. Not being able to double up made the cramping even worse. The man circled behind him and punched him twice, both kidney punches. Napoleon bit down to keep from letting out a cry. He tasted fresh blood as his split lip tore open again. 

He kept his eyes open, trying to anticipate each punch so he could try to guard against it. It helped a little. Napoleon suspected it wouldn't help for long. Not if the plan was to keep this up for days. It didn't matter, he reminded himself. Illya would come. All Napoleon had to do was stay alive. The punch to his groin took him by surprise. Through the pain he kept that thought. All he had to do was stay alive.

* * *

The call came while Waverly was in the infirmary. He was informed that someone was on the phone asking to speak with Illya Kuryakin in regard to Napoleon Solo. After a moment's consideration, Waverly arranged for the call to be transferred into Illya's room over the speaker. The room was soundproof so no one would hear except for the technician taping and trying to trace the call.

Waverly let himself into Illya's room. Illya was standing by the window. He acknowledged his boss with a quick glance. 

Waverly didn't waste any time. "They're transferring a call in. I suspect it is from whoever has your partner."

That got a reaction at least. Nothing else had up to this point. "Who is it?" 

Even Waverly felt a shiver at the deadly menace in the Russian's voice. He almost felt a moment's pity for this particular perpetrator. It was clear that whoever it was would get none from Illya. 

A voice came over the speaker. "I'm putting the call through now."

Waverly gestured toward the wall where the speaker hung. "We'll find out now."

A different woman's voice spoke. "Am I speaking with Illya Kuryakin?"

Illya growled. "Who the hell is this?"

"I'm crushed you don't recognize my voice."

Waverly watched as Illya ran the voice through his internal files. He knew the second Illya figured it out. The Russian spat the name out. "Gervaise Ravel."

"Oh, you do recognize my voice. I'm so pleased."

"Where is Napoleon?" The question was filled with venom.

"Now, why should you care? After all, you gave him to me. Like some useless knick-knack at a garage sale."

Illya's face grew pale and Waverly watched as his hands clenched into tight fists. He felt a momentary pride in the Russian agent as he found the inner resources to keep his struggle out of his voice. "What do you want?"

"I already have what I want."

"Then why are you calling?"

"Because I wanted you to know why I was doing this. It's no fun if you don't know."

"Then tell me why."

"Haven't you guessed already?"

Waverly could see the anger growing in Illya's eyes. "No, I haven't. Tell me." Waverly glanced at his watch. They needed more time to trace the call. He made a circling motion with his finger to let Illya know he should keep the conversation going. Illya nodded, his face pinched and drawn.

"I want you to guess."

Illya's jaw clenched. "You are obviously doing this to prove a point. What will it take to have you consider it proven and return Napoleon?"

"Oh, I'm not going to return Mr. Solo. I'm going to have him tortured until he dies. Or should I say that I'm going to have him tortured more." She let out a dainty laugh.

Illya took a step toward the speaker as if he might rip it from the wall. "If you're trying to get back at me, why didn't you take me?" Waverly had no doubt that if Illya could arrange it, he'd trade places with Napoleon in a second.

"Because this way I get two for one. Besides, you were the one who killed Harold."

"This is all to get back at me for killing Harold Buffington? If that is the case, again I ask, why not kill me?"

"That wouldn't be a fair exchange. You'd hardly suffer enough if I just killed you. No, it's only fair it be Mr. Solo. After all, you killed my lover, so I'm killing yours."

Illya shot a startled look at Waverly. He shook his head. "Napoleon and I aren't…" 

Gervaise interrupted with a laugh. "I knew it. I knew you'd be a coward and deny it. It doesn't matter. I know better. How does it feel to have condemned your lover to death, Mr. Kuryakin? How does it feel to know that he's being beaten right now as we have this little chat?"

Waverly actually took a step back at the look in the Russian's eyes. If that woman had been in the room, nothing would stop Illya from killing her. "What do you want?" he demanded furiously. "If it's me you want to punish, then come and get me."

"No, I like it this way better. Oh, by the way, not that it should come as a surprise, but he hates you now." She laughed again. 

Illya punched the wall. "I will find you and I will kill you."

"I don't think so. And if you're trying to trace this call, don't bother. You won't be able to." There was a satisfied sigh. "Oh, I almost forgot. I'm having a few pictures of Napoleon taken while he enjoys his stay with us. I thought I'd send them on to you so you can see what you've done to him. Ta now." There was a sound of a phone hanging up and then a dial tone.

Illya went crazy for a minute. Waverly watched as he threw a wooden folding chair against the wall. When that wasn't enough to satisfy his rage, it made a second trip toward the window. Waverly made himself a mental note to send a letter of commendation to whoever designed the window as it made it through the violent attack unscathed. Never once did it even occur to him to fear for his own safety. 

When the chair bounced off the window, Illya snapped it into several pieces. Then he sank down to the floor, and sat there, his face in his hands.

Waverly searched his pockets for a pouch of tobacco. He took a few minutes filling his pipe and lighting it, giving his agent a chance to pull himself together.

Finally Illya looked up. "I will kill her for this."

"I've no doubt you will." Waverly sincerely hoped the agent's thirst for vengeance would give him a sense of purpose. He'd need something to cling to if Gervaise had her way.

Illya closed his eyes. "What she said, about me and Napoleon…it isn't true."

"Come now, Mr. Kuryakin. I'm hardly a young school girl to blush at unconventional relationships."

Illya stared up at him with astonished eyes. "You mean you think that Napoleon and I…?"

Waverly relit his pipe.

Illya knew his boss wasn't convinced. "We're not."

Waverly wasn't surprised that Illya was denying it. The world at large was still depressingly close-minded. He also had no need to push Illya into a confession. "Be that as it may, it is apparently what Gervaise Ravel believes, and she is using the alleged situation to strike back at you."

Illya ran a weary hand through his hair. "I don't understand why she would think that." He lifted tortured eyes to his boss. "Was it something I said? The way I act around him?"  
  
Waverly pursed his lips. This was another diabolical angle of this affair. The woman was fiendishly clever and had taken the time to get to know the Russian well. Now he would be tormenting himself for somehow betraying his feelings for his partner, resulting in Gervaise setting her sights on him for her revenge.

Waverly needed to keep him distracted. "I'm going to send an interrogator in here to ask you questions about Miss Ravel. Perhaps you might reveal some information we can use to apprehend her."

Illya nodded. "Anything." He looked over at Waverly. "I'll do anything."

Waverly nodded. "I know." He walked across the room, skirting the remains of the chair to place a warm hand on Illya's shoulder. "We'll get him back." He sincerely hoped it was true. Waverly glanced down at the wooden shards and harrumphed. "I'll have them bring a new chair as well."

That got a shadow of a smile from Illya. "Perhaps something in metal."

* * *

Napoleon was tired, but he didn't let it show in his face; he took a fierce delight in seeing frustration cross Gervaise's face.

She stomped her foot. "No, no, it's all wrong. How can I take a picture of him looking like that? He looks so…defiant."

Napoleon was pleased. Let her take her pictures; let her show them to Illya. He would see Napoleon's eyes. He would see that his partner was fine despite the bruises all over his body. Napoleon longed to reassure Illya. He knew that Illya's reaction to his supposed betrayal would be eating him alive. 

Gervaise paced the length of the cell. She tried a different tack. "I spoke with your partner today."

Napoleon raised a brow. "And how is the old boy?"

"I told him you hated him."

Napoleon kept the hurt he felt for Illya off his face. 

She was just getting started. "He, of course, believed it."

Napoleon was sure that he did. He wished with all his heart that Gervaise would walk within reach. He'd rip her tongue out.

He was in back in chains. They'd taken him down twice, allowed him a few minutes respite, something to drink, a chance to relieve himself, and then they'd chained him again. The men knew what they were doing. He could last for days, even weeks, this way. Today had already felt like forever, and it wasn't over yet. 

Napoleon wondered worriedly who it was Gervaise had on the inside. If they had access to Illya, they still controlled him. They could make him kill someone else, or, as Gervaise had threatened, have him kill himself. Although Napoleon wasn't sure he'd need any help for that. 

Napoleon couldn't imagine what Illya was going through, being locked up, knowing he'd been used, his imprisonment denying him the opportunity to atone for his sins. Napoleon knew that's how Illya would see it. As a sin. An unforgivable sin. Especially after that Partridge affair. It had taken Napoleon weeks to convince his partner that there were no hard feelings, that he didn't blame Illya for what had happened. Of course, Illya had missed that time. And other than a few blows being exchanged, neither of them had been hurt.

Napoleon pushed away the memory of his partner just standing there. He hadn't missed this time. Even if Napoleon knew now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Illya would never betray him, for those last few seconds when they were dragging him away, Napoleon had thought he had, and those few seconds had felt like the worst kind of hell. 

His head rang as a hand slapped him across the face. He shook his head to clear the ringing and saw Gervaise standing in front of him. 

She pouted at him. "You're not paying attention to me, Napoleon."

Napoleon found the energy to give her a rueful grin. "How unforgivable of me." 

Gervaise made a moue as she considered him. Then she shook her head. "This is just not working for me." She turned to one of her helpers. "Knock him out, then I'll take a few pictures. Oh, and make him bleed a little more, would you?"

Napoleon instinctively tried to guard against what he knew was coming, but there was nowhere for him to go. He saw the fist, and felt the pain, and then all he knew was darkness.

* * *

Illya had been interrogated all evening and had no idea if anything he'd said about Gervaise would be useful. It was making him insane to sit here and do nothing. Just like he'd done nothing when Napoleon was attacked. Illya couldn't get the pictures out of his head; they played over and over in his mind, Napoleon crying out for him, the pleading look in his eyes, the fingers dragging, bleeding as they hopelessly fought for traction. He closed his eyes against the memories, but they were there behind his eyelids as well. They were always there, even when he slept.

The door to his room opened. He glanced up to see it was Sarah, the only nurse he could tolerate. Illya gave her a brief nod. He was relieved it was she. He liked it when Sarah took care of him when he was hurt. Because of his too frequent visits, he knew the medical staff more intimately than he wished. But, for some reason, he always felt relaxed after Sarah took care of him.

She pulled a syringe out of her pocket.

Illya scowled. "What's that for?"

Sarah smiled softly at him. "Doctor's orders, Illya. Just something to relax you so we can assess if the conditioning has worn off." 

Illya held out his arm. Let it be gone, he prayed to a god he didn't believe in, let it please be gone. 

* * *

Waverly appeared the next morning, holding a large manila envelope. He held it out to Illya who took it, giving it a close scrutiny. It was addressed to him, with no return address, or postage. He glanced up at his boss. "Someone must have dropped it off. Did anyone see who left it?"

The older man nodded. "It was brought by a young boy who said he was given money to deliver it. He gave us a description of the man who gave him the money, but it was too vague to be of much use." He gestured at the package. "It's been x-rayed for any explosives. It's clean."

Illya nodded. He was reluctant to open the envelope, knowing what he'd find. Pictures of Napoleon being tortured--possibly killed--because of his betrayal. But he had no choice. There might be clues that would provide a lead to his partner's location.

Holding the package gingerly, he worked his fingers under the flap, prying apart the adhesive. Illya cautiously looked inside. Seeing that there didn't seem to be anything inside but the expected pictures, Illya reached in and pulled out the stack. The photos were paper clipped into two sets. Illya read the note attached to the top set out loud. "Dear Illya, as promised, here are some pictures for your scrapbook. Having a wonderful time, wish you were here. Gervaise."

He glanced up at Waverly and saw a flash of anger in his eyes. The older man didn't appreciate this woman's tactics anymore than Illya did. His chair having been replaced, Illya sat at the small table and taking off the clip, spread the first set of photos out. 

Napoleon was chained to the floor and ceiling, head sagging as if unconscious or dangerously close. He still had his pants on, but his chest was bare and it was a technicolor explosion of bruises. Where there weren't bruises, there was blood. Illya could see multiple slashes, and his lip was split and swollen. 

The memory of Napoleon being hit while he stood watching flashed through his mind. He could see the drops of blood flying from his partner's mouth. Illya had to close his eyes for a moment to regain control. 

He looked again at the pictures, and the analytical part of his mind informed him that while Napoleon looked bad, he'd often looked worse after many torture sessions and had managed to survive. But he found no solace in the thought. He was responsible. He had sold out his partner, and every blow, every cut, was because of him. And Gervaise had only had him for a day. 

Illya knew there'd be pictures delivered daily, all part of Gervaise's revenge, and every day Napoleon would be that much closer to death. He stared at the pictures, hoping that there would be something in them that might indicate where Napoleon was being held. But it was a plain cell, similar to countless cells that he and Napoleon had been incarcerated. There was nothing on the walls, no window showing a conveniently recognizable landmark outside, nothing.

Illya glanced up as Mr. Waverly cleared his throat. "Are they more of the same?"

Illya followed his eyes and saw the second stack of photos. He pulled them free from under the others and read the attached note. "Dear Illya, I wanted you to have something to remind you of your dead lover. Every time you look at these, you can remember that I took it away, just like you took it away from me. Gervaise."

Illya's brow furrowed as he pulled the clip off and laid these out as well. Expecting to see photo manipulations of him and Napoleon in bed, he was shocked at what lay before him. 

They were real. Every one of them. Pictures of him and Napoleon taken over the last few months. Illya was appalled that he'd had no idea someone was following them and taking photographs. Despite the cruel application, Illya felt a moment's admiration for the stealth, and talent, of the photographer. 

There were eight of them. Photos of the two of them at lunch, at dinner, walking down the street, sitting on a park bench, standing at a bar, walking into Napoleon's apartment. 

Illya was dumbfounded. It was as if someone had reached inside to the deepest part of himself and laid it out for display. Foolishly proud of his austere facade, never would he have guessed he gave so much away, exposed so much of his heart, his need, in every look and gesture. And never would he have guessed that this was what his heart was saying.

He couldn't stop looking at them. The evidence was unmistakable, and Illya could understand why Gervaise had mistakenly assumed they were lovers, or had at least drawn the conclusion that Illya was in love with Napoleon. It was written all over his face, in the way he leaned toward his partner, the way he touched his hand, or arm. It was in his expression, in the way he smiled, the rapt attention as Napoleon spoke, the light in his eyes as he looked at his partner, the teasing flirtatious way he held his head, quirked his lips. 

He reached out a shaky finger and touched his hand in one of the photos, where it lay on Napoleon's shoulder. Illya remembered that instant, remembered the feel of Napoleon's strong body under his hand, how right it felt to be touching him, how perfect that moment had seemed. "I didn't know." He glanced up at Waverly, lost. "How could I not have known?" It seemed so clear to him now. Now that it had been shown to him, and taken from him.

He saw a flash of surprise in the old man's eyes. Waverly sat down across from him, finally believing him. "Do you mean that you aren't involved in a relationship with Mr. Solo?"

Illya shook his head. "I didn't know." Illya ran his finger across another picture, one where Napoleon was dragging him into his apartment. His body seemed reluctant, but the expression on his face told a completely different story. His eyes were latched on his partner's, and alight with pleasure. 

He remembered that moment too. Napoleon's fingers around his arm, his devil-may-care grin, his teasing eyes. Illya could recall giving way to Napoleon, something within his psyche interpreting his partner's actions as seduction, followed by his willing capitulation. The two of them had sat up all night, drinking, talking, sitting shoulder to shoulder in front of the couch, watching a fire, the burning logs crackling in harmony to their soft laughs and silly toasts.

Illya covered his face with his hands, his elbows resting on the table. Every picture told the same tale. He, Illya Kuryakin, was in love with his partner. And he hadn't known. And he desperately wished he still lived in ignorance. Because now that he did know, the guilt, which had been churning a hole in his gut, began to eat him alive. His fear for Napoleon suddenly doubled, tripled. And it was all underscored by a longing that made his chest hurt, and his soul feel as if it had lost its reason for living. He loved Napoleon, and because of it, Napoleon would die. If he could have ripped his heart out, he would have. 

He glanced up at Waverly, knowing it was all in his eyes, his ability to hide his feelings compromised by the seething cauldron of emotions twisting inside of him. "I have to find him."

The eyes that met his were compassionate but stern. "Every agent that can be spared is looking for him."

That wasn't what Illya meant. "I have to find him. You have to let me go."

Waverly shook his head. "That's impossible. Dr. Wilson's tests are quite clear. Your mind isn't free of the conditioning."

Illya felt a moment of acute frustration. Under hypnosis, in ordinary circumstances, his mental reflexes were fairly predictable. When asked certain questions, he responded with certain answers. Yes, no, left, right, before, after, seemingly benign questions and answers, but they established a baseline of his normally functioning brain.

Without the specifics, Illya knew that right now, under hypnosis, he was saying right when he should be saying left, or not answering at all, when he would normally say yes. Small differences in one way, but they proved that his mind had been tampered with and was still not recovered. With enough probing, the path of the conditioning would be discovered, and with the right series of questions, it could be broken. But, this time, they remained unsuccessful.

Illya stood and moved to the window, looking out at the inner courtyard of UNCLE headquarters. It seemed especially unkind that it looked to be a spectacular day, the sun shining, a few wispy clouds breaking up a brilliant blue sky. And somewhere, his partner was most likely being beaten again, knowing that he couldn't rely on Illya to come and rescue him, as it was because of him that Napoleon was in enemy hands.

Illya punched the wall. He heard something in his hand crack. The physical pain didn't make a dent in his emotional pain. 

* * *

At some point during the night he'd been unchained and taken back to his room. Napoleon had been mercifully unconscious, but he was grateful for the respite. He fully expected another day of torture. 

The thought of it sapped his strength. He was able to undergo a tremendous amount of torture, due to his training and his own natural resilience, and although yesterday had been bad, he'd been through worse. But, always before, he'd either been with Illya, or knew that, if he could wait it out, Illya would come and rescue him.

Neither was true in this case. He believed Gervaise when she said that she had someone on the inside and that he or she would keep Illya from coming for him. And although Napoleon respected his other fellow agents, no one was good as Illya. As clever as Gervaise was being, it was unlikely he'd be found by anyone else. 

Napoleon knew that the overall point of this exercise was for him to die, and for it to be rubbed in his partner's face. He knew, sick at heart, that Illya was looking at the pictures from yesterday's session right now.

Napoleon wished he could talk to him, reassure him, touch him, make him smile. Anything that would take away the haunted, bleak look he knew would be in Illya's eyes right now.

His eyes scanned the room and saw that a meal had been left for him. A subtle reminder that this stay of his was meant to last. He pulled himself up, letting out a loud groan as every muscle protested, and made his way to the counter where it had been left. There was no silverware, but then there hadn't been with his other meals, either. They were taking no chances. 

Napoleon was hungry enough to not stand on ceremony. Wiping his hands off the best he could on his pants, even though he knew they were filthy, he began to eat, making his way through a dried chicken breast and some overcooked vegetables. There was water in a steel pitcher, and he drank it thirstily. 

When he was done, he made a circuit of his room slowly, his muscles aching, but found nothing that he could use to escape or that told him where he was. He was certain that the two goons Gervaise had working for her would not make a mistake that might allow him to escape. He had to grudgingly admit that they were consummate professionals. Not that he wouldn't look for an opportunity, but he wasn't holding his breath.

After another circuit, he lay down, deciding what he needed more than anything was sleep, but it was difficult to get comfortable when he hurt everywhere. Napoleon kept shifting position, and the second he found one where he thought he might be able to drift to sleep, he heard keys in the door. 

He closed his eyes, trying to muster some strength, determined to not appear weak in front of his captor. As he heard the door open, Napoleon sat up, hoping to avoid being painfully yanked up. It was Gervaise, flanked by her thugs.

Napoleon gave her a mocking smile, ignoring the sting of his lip where it was split. "Gervaise, that suit looks stunning on you. By the way, as much as I've enjoyed your hospitality, I think I'm ready to check out. I’m already running late for some appointments."

Gervaise couldn't help preening, ignoring everything but the compliment. She was dressed in a gray ensemble today. "You really like it?" Then she frowned at Napoleon and then frowned at her boys. "He seems in remarkably good condition. Are you sure you did a thorough job on him yesterday?"

They just looked at her.

She shrugged and then gave Napoleon a smug smile. "It doesn't matter. After all, I want you to last. That is the point, isn't it?" Gervaise gestured at the men at her sides to get to work. She threw out a last comment as she headed for the door. "By the way, I had the first set of pictures delivered to your partner this morning. I've been told he broke several bones in his hand punching the wall. I do hope it wasn't his gun hand."

Napoleon clenched his fists, wishing he could get his hands on her and wipe that smile off her face. But he could see the men watching him closely, and he knew he wouldn't get anywhere near her. 

He struggled as the men grabbed him and dragged him to his torture chamber and put him back in chains. Napoleon was gratified to get in a couple of punches, even though he knew he'd pay for them. 

Napoleon barely kept a grimace off his face when one of the men picked up a riding crop. As the lashes began to rain upon his body, he grit his teeth, and thought of slowly killing Gervaise.

* * *

The days were becoming routine. Painful, but routine. Every morning Waverly dropped off the envelope. Together they scoured the pictures of Napoleon being tortured trying to find any clues to his whereabouts. 

Then Waverly left to take those pictures to the lab for further investigation and, Illya was sure, to give him some privacy to look at the other pictures. They came every day as well. The pictures of the two of them. Illya had today's still unseen pictures clutched in his hand as he stood by the window.

The rest of each day had a predictable pattern as well. There was lunch to choke down. Dr. Wilson came in every afternoon to check on his conditioning. Another meal, and then every evening Sarah came in to do more testing. Hours of restless sleep and then the day started again.

Five days of it, and Illya was going slowly insane. Five days of waiting while Napoleon was killed by inches. Five days of feeling more helpless than he'd ever felt in his life. Five days of his love for Napoleon growing like the laying of weft and warp threads to create a tightly woven fabric.

As the love grew, the pain grew. The helplessness and hopelessness grew, the guilt grew, the anger grew, until now, he was a walking time bomb. His life was inextricably linked to Napoleon's. When the news came of Napoleon's death, his life would be over too. 

The pictures today had been the worst so far. Of course, that had been true every day. But Napoleon was starting to lose the battle. He'd been stripped naked, hanging helpless, blood oozing from countless knife cuts and strap marks. The fingers of one hand were obviously broken, and based on the swelling on Napoleon's chest, Illya was sure he had some broken ribs. Four of the pictures included two men, dressed in black, hooded to prevent identification, using the tools of the trade to leech the life out of Napoleon.

Two pictures bothered Illya the most. The first had one of the men holding Napoleon's head, making him stare at the camera as his picture was taken. It bothered Illya because Napoleon's eyes were blank. There was no spark, no defiance, just a bone deep weariness.

Anything would be better than the blankness in those dark eyes. Even if the spark of anger or defiance in Napoleon's eyes had been directed at him, as in fact he would expect it to be, it would be preferable to the emptiness that stared at him now. 

The other picture had been taken after he'd been unchained. He was still naked, and curled up into a ball, his back and buttocks to the camera. Completely vulnerable. Completely alone. Illya had fought back tears at that picture. 

For the first time in his life he understood the emotion behind the word crave. As if an outside force was taking over his body, Illya craved to reach into that photograph and take Napoleon in his arms, cradling him against his chest. Knowing that he didn't have the right, that he was the cause of this, that Napoleon would never trust him again, created a heartbreaking dissonance within his soul.

Illya glanced up to see that his lunch was being brought in. He had stopped eating at first, having no appetite, but the doctor had threatened to put him on intravenous feedings so he'd been forcing himself to eat, at least enough to keep any further threats away. 

It was also something to do. It was a way to pass the few minutes it took to carry his fork from his plate to his mouth, one bite after another, until a sufficient amount of the food had been consumed. Because once the meal was over, he was left with nothing but his thoughts.

He sat down, picking up his fork. Illya laid the pictures he'd been clutching down beside the tray. He smoothed the crinkled edges with his fingers. With his first bite of food he looked at the first photo.

It was him and Napoleon having dinner at a small Greek restaurant that Illya liked. They had finished their main meal and were relaxing with tea and dessert. Illya remembered the meal. He remembered every moment the pictures displayed, for all that they were mundane moments, just seconds out of hundreds of days. Each of these moments felt important, and Illya knew it was because he had been with Napoleon. As if his life was measured by the time he spent with his partner.

In this picture they'd been talking about favorite vacation spots. Napoleon had had a hundred to discuss, he, only a few. But it had been an enjoyable conversation and they had even made some tentative plans to go on one together. This moment was when he laid his hand on Napoleon's forearm, and teasingly suggested Russia. 

It had been in jest. Russia was not a place Illya went to cavalierly, despite it being his home. The politics were too unstable, and even when Illya went there on missions a part of him was concerned that he might not get out. 

But, even though it had been in jest, a part of him had wanted to show Napoleon his home, show him where he'd grown up, what had shaped him, and in doing so, give something of himself to his partner that he'd never given to anyone else. Napoleon couldn't know that, of course, and he'd laughed, and they'd moved on, discussing warmer climes, ocean resorts, miles of sandy beaches filled with beautiful women in tiny bikinis.

Illya flipped the photo to reveal the one underneath. They were walking out of the United Nations. They had reached the sidewalk when a young man on a bicycle seemed to come out of nowhere. Napoleon had stumbled out of the way and had unintentionally shoved Illya. To keep Napoleon from falling any further, Illya had wrapped a tight arm around his waist, using his other arm to grab the nearest flagpole. Then Napoleon, balance restored had laughed and grabbed Illya's shoulder in a show of thanks for the quick save.

That was when the picture had been taken. It looked as if they were embracing on a public street. Napoleon was grinning down at him, and he was smiling up at Napoleon. In this picture, in this depicted world where one man could openly touch another man, it would only follow that Napoleon would have leaned down and kissed him. 

Illya felt a thrill of desire shoot threw him, knowing that even back then, when he'd been so uninformed of his feelings for Napoleon, if Napoleon had lost all sense of reason, and had leaned down to kiss him, he would have kissed him back. He might have hesitated for a moment, but then he'd have parted his lips, and welcomed the soft, wet, and strong tongue into his mouth.

Illya flipped the picture over, his desire making him uncomfortable, knowing he was under surveillance. If he were smart, he would stop looking at the pictures, but they tugged at him, showing him an alternate universe that was based on love, and not filled with pain and loss and loneliness. And even knowing it would never be his, he ached for it.

The next picture was taken the same day, just a few minutes later. They were walking down the street, Napoleon talking, gesticulating wildly to make some point, and Illya was staring at him, a soft smile on his face, captivated. 

Illya rested his fork on his plate and ran his hand over his face in the photo. Every bit of his attention was focused on his partner, as if he were imparting words of paramount importance. But the story had been a silly one, from Napoleon's youth, a school visit to the United Nations gone a tad awry due to his insatiable curiosity and the inevitable wandering down the wrong hall. 

Illya could remember how he felt at the time. As if he were being given a sacred trust to hear this story from Napoleon's youth, to be gifted with this vision of Napoleon as a child, displaying traits that would become part of who he was as an adult, as Illya's partner, and best friend. 

It had been a good day, that day. They had completed the one chore given them for the day at the UN. Neither of them was nursing injuries, nor did they have anywhere they needed to be. By unspoken consent, they ended up spending the day together. Napoleon had been in an expansive mood, chatting at length about his childhood, drawing Illya out as well. They'd had lunch, and then later dinner. Illya didn't think he'd ever talked as much as he talked that day. 

Illya could remember wondering why Napoleon wasn't taking advantage of the free time to find a woman for company, but he hadn't brought it up. He had just enjoyed the day for what it was, knowing that at some point, he'd have to give Napoleon back, either to the job, or to the long line of women who were constantly jockeying for position to be at his side.

He flipped the picture. A short laugh escaped Illya. They were at the zoo. An uncommon venue for either of them, but chasing down a THRUSH agent had led them inside, and once the agent had been apprehended and taken away, they had roamed for a while. 

Napoleon was standing in front of a cage where a black panther was pacing. Illya glanced at the panther in the photograph. He was a thing of beauty--sleek, dark, and dangerous. His golden eyes spoke of far away places as he walked the measure of his cage, turned and walked it again. In the photo, Napoleon's eyes were on the panther.

Illya looked at himself in the picture. Oblivious to the magnificent cat parading in front of him, his eyes were on Napoleon. His thoughts of that moment came back to him. Comparing, contrasting, seeing what traits his partner shared with the giant cat. That he was also sleek, dark and dangerous. Since that day, whenever Napoleon paced, either due to nervousness, or as he worked through a problem, Illya thought of that day at the zoo, seeing the panther in his mind's eye.

Illya was staggered that he hadn't understood what was going on inside of him. Staggered that he'd been so blind, that even with his scientific background, and skill of putting clues together to create a coherent whole, he'd failed to put these pieces together. Failed miserably.

Illya thought of Napoleon now. Locked away, caged in a small cell, all possibility of freedom removed. It made him sick to his stomach and he pushed his lunch tray away, appetite gone.

He flipped to the next picture. Napoleon was helping him out of the car. It was after a grueling mission, and Illya had been shot in the leg. He'd insisted on being released from Medical before he was in any shape to be mobile, and Napoleon had, as they always did for each other, offered his assistance. 

He'd gotten his car door open and Napoleon had moved around the car, ready to help him get out. The picture showed Illya reaching up for Napoleon, his face trusting, expectant. Waiting for the feel of strong arms around him, holding him, supporting him. And that's what happened. His hands on Napoleon's shoulders, Napoleon's hands on his waist as, in tandem, they manipulated him out of the car.

Then Napoleon had stayed close, his arm still around his waist, as he helped Illya make his way upstairs. Napoleon had wanted to stay but Illya wouldn't hear of it. Napoleon had a date, and Illya had no intention of interfering. 

With a frown on his face, Napoleon had gotten him settled in bed, brought in a few magazines, a pitcher of water, and a sandwich for when Illya got hungry, and then had reluctantly left.

Now, in retrospect, Illya couldn't understand why he'd let Napoleon go. Napoleon had wanted to stay, and Illya had wanted it too. After he'd left, the apartment had seemed excruciatingly lonely, and rather than comfortably resting, as he would have done if Napoleon were there, he lay in bed, bothered by ghosts he couldn't name, or refused to name.

Illya could name them now. Or name her. Melissa. It had been Melissa that night who had enjoyed his partner's company, and stories, and touch. But later that night, Napoleon had called, and they'd spoken on the phone for some time, long enough to let Illya know that Melissa wasn't there, that Napoleon wasn't spending the night with her. Finally, phone still clutched in hand, the sound of Napoleon's voice having thoroughly relaxed him, he'd fallen asleep. And Napoleon had been there first thing in the morning with freshly brewed coffee and bagels.

Stupid. He'd been so stupid. Illya decided he couldn't bear to look at any more pictures. He moved back to the window, and spent the rest of the afternoon staring out at sunny blue skies.

* * *

Napoleon could hear voices, but he was too tired, and in too much pain, to pay any attention. Cold water was splashed in his face. He spit some out, still not sure the cold baptism was enough inducement to move. It hardly mattered. Either way he was going to get beaten. 

He'd lost track of the days. It seemed as if he had been here forever. It seemed as if he would be here forever. A part of him wished he'd just die and get it over with. But his body was accustomed to surviving, and survive it did.

The voice grew more strident. "Make him wake up."

He was prodded by a boot, none too gently. It still wasn't enough to get him to move. He certainly wasn't going to put himself out on her behalf. The thought of Gervaise ignited a spark of anger deep within his breast. He silently fanned it, welcoming the sensation of being more than just physically alive.

Her voice grew closer and more strident. "I need to talk to him."

Napoleon stayed still. Maybe if he held still enough, ignored her long enough, she'd move closer. There had been only two things that he'd found of sufficient importance to provide adequate distraction while he was tortured. One was killing Gervaise; the other was Illya. 

He dreamed of being with Illya. Nothing earth shattering, just quiet meals, listening to his dry wit, cajoling those infrequent grins of his, enjoying his steady presence, support, and friendship. He tried not to think about what Illya was going through right now because it took him out of his pleasant dreams. Thoughts of what Illya was currently undergoing led to visions of killing Gervaise. 

And while there was a definite appeal to that, and it helped take his mind off the fists pummeling his body, he much preferred the distraction of Illya's companionship. It soothed him, nurturing his flagging heart.

The voice was even closer this time. Napoleon tried to marshal his strength, what was left of it, hoping it would be enough. 

"Throw some more water on him."

Napoleon braced for the cold bath. The shock of the freezing water helped revive him even more. He stayed still, not giving anything away, needing her closer.

Then he felt it. Another toe was prodding him, but it wasn't a boot, it was the sharp point of a fashion shoe. She was right there. He drew in a long breath, preparing himself, and then he struck.

He had her flat on her back, his body on top of hers, his hands around her neck, fingers tightening, when the men interfered. Napoleon mentally begged for another few seconds, all he'd need to finish the job, but they dragged him off and flung him against the wall, stunning him.

One stood over him, gun pointed at his chest, while the other assisted Gervaise. Napoleon felt a grin on his face as he looked at her, even though it earned him a kick from his guard. But she looked a wreck. Her hat was askew, her hair mussed, she'd lost a shoe, and her peach colored suit was covered with his dirt and blood.

She spit invectives at him as she brushed ineffectively at her suit. "I'll kill you for this. You bastard." She glowered at him. "I loved this suit and you've ruined it." Gervaise spoke bitingly. "You're a pig."

Napoleon watched her, his eyes glittering, his attack on her--even if less than fully successful--giving him a deep sense of satisfaction. He felt ready to take on the world, or at least to take on the day, whatever it brought. 

She could see it in his face. "You think this means you've won something?" She gave him a brittle smile, as she straightened her hat, patting her hair. "All you've done is make me tired of the game, and that means you've just signed your partner's death warrant."

Napoleon tried to keep the panic out of his eyes but he was not successful.

She laughed at him. "Now you remember who has the power here, despite your little display." Gervaise pursed her lips, as if in thought, and then she smiled. "Yes, I think tonight you'll get to see the final act of my plan." She looked down at her suit and grimaced. "Clean him off, and let him rest today. Let him think."

He watched her from the floor, his fear for Illya growing. 

Gervaise's smile grew more triumphant. "I don't want you to miss a thing when I have Kuryakin come here tonight and kill you. Although that does mean you'll miss the part where he shoots himself, but that can't be helped."

Napoleon tried for her again, but barely got off the floor when he felt the butt of the man's gun come down on the back of his head, making the world explode into a million stars and then go dark.

* * *

Sarah let herself in, the same way she did every night. Illya acknowledged her with a slight nod, and moved to the bed so she could do her testing.

She moved over to him, but instead of rolling up his sleeve so she could give him his usual injection, she bent down and whispered in his ear. "It's time to go play, Illya."

Illya stilled, and turned to face her, listening.

"Can you get out of this building without being seen?"

Illya nodded.

She placed a bag under his bed. "I went to your apartment earlier and picked up a spare gun, and a change of clothes. They are in the bag I just slid under your bed. When I leave this room, I will leave it unlocked. You are to wait ten minutes and then you will get dressed and hide the gun in your jacket. Then, you will leave this room and make your way out of the building without being seen or setting off any alarms." Sarah waited a moment. "Is that clear?"

Illya nodded.

She continued. "There will be a car waiting for you on the southeast corner of the block. The car will take you to someone who will give you further instructions. Do you understand everything I've told you?"

Illya nodded.

"Good. I'm leaving now. When I leave, you will remember these orders, but you won't remember it was me who told them to you." 

When he nodded one more time, she made her way to the door and shut it behind her. She mimicked locking the door in case anyone was watching, and then she made her way to security. She had a security tech to distract while Illya got dressed and made his escape.

* * *

When exactly ten minutes had passed, Illya stood and pulled out the bag. He stripped off the scrubs he was wearing, and changed into the outfit he found within. Black pants, black turtleneck, shoulder holster and bomber jacket. He slipped the gun into his holster. Tying his shoes, his splinted fingers making it a cumbersome task, he considered the door.

He moved to the door, looking out the small window to make sure no one was around, and then he slipped out. Within minutes he was outside the building, escaping unnoticed. 

Illya walked to the southeast corner of the building and when a man got out of a car and gestured for him to get in, he obeyed. There was no greeting or conversation. As the car moved forward, Illya sat back against the seat. He silently stared out the window as he was driven to his destination.

When they arrived, Illya waited for further instruction. The man sitting next to him got out and gestured for Illya to follow. 

* * *

Napoleon, after being manhandled into a shower and washed none too gently, had rested all day. He almost felt human or at least he could remember what it felt like to be human and that was a step in the right direction. His body still ached everywhere, protesting every move, each breath was labored because of his broken ribs, and his hand didn't bear thinking about, but the sleep had done him some good, as had, needless to say, not being beaten for a day.

He had woken once to eat a meal and then fallen back into an exhausted slumber. Now, he lay on his cot, thinking of Illya. Wondering if Gervaise could make his partner kill him.

Not counting the fact that Napoleon didn't want to die, he especially didn't want to die at Illya's hands, and he definitely didn't want Illya to kill himself once he'd killed Napoleon. There had to be something he could do or say that would snap Illya out of it. 

He heard a key in the door. Gervaise stepped in with her thugs. She'd changed into a new suit. Napoleon couldn't help but smirk.

She smiled at him in a way that let him know she was not amused. "I'm so glad you're enjoying yourself. I'd hate for your last night of life to be boring."

He was a study in nonchalance. "Don't worry about me. Every time I get bored I think about strangling you and it cheers me right up."

Gervaise glowered at him. "You won't be laughing long. Your lover's here and you'll be dead soon."

Napoleon's brow furrowed. His lover? Who did Gervaise think was his lover? And where was Illya? "Who…?"

He was interrupted when the door opened and a man Napoleon hadn't seen before poked his head in. "I put Kuryakin down at the end like you told me to."

Gervaise nodded. "Very good."

Napoleon was flummoxed. Did Gervaise think he and Illya were lovers? Where had she gotten that idea? 

"Strip him, then bring him down to the end room."

Napoleon knew she meant to humiliate him, but Illya had seen him naked on many occasions, and he sure as hell wasn't going to be humiliated in front of this bitch. He held up his hand as the thugs approached him. "Allow me." Napoleon stripped off the drawstring pants he'd been given. "Shall we go?"

Despite his willingness, the men still pushed him roughly as they prodded him down the hall. He grit his teeth to stop from crying out when their weapons connected with his aching body. Napoleon was overly familiar with the room at the end of the hall, as it was where he'd been taken every day for his torture sessions. Pushed in the room hard enough to stumble, Napoleon caught a glimpse of Illya standing in the corner. "Illya!"

Illya didn't acknowledge him, and Napoleon's stomach began to knot. He tried again. "Illya, it's me, Napoleon!"

All that got him was a sharp poke in the back by a pistol, hard enough to bring him to his knees. Despite what had previously occurred, he still found himself waiting for Illya to intervene, to throw himself into the melee, heedless of danger, to save his partner.

Nothing happened. Napoleon was yanked to his feet and chained. Then the men moved to the side of the room and waited.

It took a moment for Napoleon to breathe through the pain, and then he focused in on his partner. "Illya. Illya. Look at me." The Russian's appearance was distressing. He'd lost weight; his face was gaunt with heavy shadows under his eyes, clear evidence that this week had been equally cruel to his friend. He called, louder, "Illya!"

Nothing. He just stood in the corner, waiting.

Gervaise walked in. She smiled at Napoleon, her eyes raking him from head to foot.

Napoleon was determined to annoy her as much as humanly possible. He gave her a leering grin. "Like what you see?"

Gervaise sniffed in disdain. "A jokester to the last. It will be a fitting epitaph." Her eyes flickered between Napoleon and Illya and a cruel smile formed on her lips. "Now it's time for my plan to come to full fruition." She moved to stand next to Illya and whispered something in his ear.

Illya pushed away from the wall, all his attention on her.

Napoleon kept trying. "Illya, look at me, it's Napoleon."

She walked until she was standing in front of Napoleon and curled her finger at Illya, calling to him. He walked over to her. When he was standing at her side she pointed at Napoleon. "See that man?"

Illya nodded.

"When I tell you to, I want you to take out your gun and shoot him. Five bullets spaced three minutes apart. First bullet goes in his left kneecap, second bullet in his right kneecap, third bullet in his right side through a lung…" She tapped the right side of Napoleon's chest, "…right about here I think. Shoot the fourth bullet in his abdomen, and the last bullet…"

She thought for a moment. "Shoot those four first, and I'll decide whether I'll have you shoot the fifth bullet, or just let him bleed and suffocate to death." She nodded her head, pleased with the plan, and then glanced at Illya. "Do you understand?"

Illya nodded.

"Good." She turned to Napoleon. "A little over twelve minutes, Mr. Solo. That's how long you have to live, and I expect it will be quite unpleasant." She smiled nastily at Napoleon. "Of course, once you're dead or as good as, I'll break the programming, and leave him in here with your body and his gun. We both know what he'll do with it." 

Napoleon's eyes sent daggers to Gervaise. "I will see you in hell, bitch."

She smiled. "I'll look forward to it." She glanced at Illya. "Are your orders clear?"

Illya nodded.

Napoleon had to get through to his partner. "Illya, look at me. God damn it, Illya! Illya!" He struggled against his restraints, even though he knew they wouldn't give. He'd been fighting those chains all week. 

Gervaise walked over to her men, and sat down in the chair that had been provided for her, no doubt a safe distance away from any splattering blood. She nodded at Illya. "You may shoot him now."

Illya pulled out his gun. Widening his stance, he raised his gun and aimed it at Napoleon's left leg. 

Napoleon yelled, "No, Illya, don't! Illya, it's me, Napoleon. You don't want to do this." 

Illya looked down the site and his finger curled around the trigger. Something about the gun wasn't right. His finger relaxed, the gun dropping a little.

"Shoot him now." The order from Gervaise was imperious.

His finger tightened again. 

Napoleon watched in horror as the gun started to swing back up. His entreaty came out as little more than a whisper. "Illya, don't. Please, don't do this."

The gun was unsettling for some reason. Illya found it difficult to concentrate. He glanced at the gun, his forehead creased. His eyes ran over it. He realized what it was. This wasn't his gun. It was supposed to be his gun. Illya relaxed his finger and his stance. He looked down at himself, as if looking for clues.

Napoleon began to breathe. "That's right. Illya, you don't want to do this. Trust me."

Illya lifted his head, but before Napoleon could make eye contact with his partner, Gervaise interfered. "It's time to go play, Illya. Shoot him. Now."

The gun came up again. Illya frowned. It bothered him that it wasn't his gun. His thumb caressed the metal, his brain searching for an answer that seemed tantalizingly out of reach.

The order was repeated, but this time it came from both directions. Napoleon had been given access to the trigger words; Gervaise had stupidly given the game away. "It's time to go play, Illya." He spoke the key words at the same time Gervaise did. 

They both followed the trigger with an order, speaking quickly, trying to beat the other. Napoleon shouted, "Shoot them", just as she cried, "Shoot him."

Illya looked between them both, clearly uncertain who to obey. When he looked in Napoleon's direction, there was no recognition in his eyes.

Illya went back to studying the gun. A picture came to him, a panther in a cage, then a face, and finally a name. Napoleon. This was Napoleon's gun. It all came back, the painful reality of where he was standing, what he'd been about to do. He lifted tortured eyes to his partner and spoke his name softly. "Napoleon."

Napoleon sagged with relief. Then he saw a movement out of the corner of his eyes and his widened in alarm. "Illya, behind you."

Illya turned, and fired off several shots. When he was done, both men lay dead on the floor; Gervaise went quickly to the ground, trying to recover a gun. Illya pointed his weapon at her. "Where are the keys?"

She ignored him, unwilling to admit defeat. Illya went over to her, yanked her up, and slapped her across the face. "Where are the keys?"

She glared at him.

He slapped her again, harder. If it wasn't for his desire to free his partner, he would rather she stay stubborn and silent. He wanted to hurt her.

She could see it in his eyes. Her gaze flickered downwards to the dead men. 

Never taking his eyes off of her, Illya crouched and patted down the two bodies. First he took their guns, and placing one in his pocket, he threw the other one across the room. Then he searched for the keys. When he found them, he stood up, and backed his way to Napoleon.

He pulled out the gun from his jacket. His eyes still on Gervaise, he spoke to his partner. "Can you hold a gun?"

"Yes. As long as it's my left hand."

Illya's eyes darkened as he quickly took in the shape of Napoleon's right hand. He placed the gun in Napoleon's left hand and started unlocking the chains.

Napoleon kept his finger on the trigger and smiled at Gervaise. "I'm afraid your party didn't work out quite like you expected."

She lifted her chin haughtily. "I broke out of prison once, Napoleon. I'll do it again."

Illya freed Napoleon's feet, and went to work on his left hand, positioning himself carefully so as not to obstruct Napoleon's use of the gun. 

Napoleon couldn't explain how wonderful it felt to have Illya's warm and strong body brushing up against his, knowing he was on his side. The sensation smacked of ecstasy. He tried to focus back in on the conversation. "I expect they'll keep a closer eye on you this time."

"It doesn't matter. I'll find a way to kill you both. I'll make you pay for what you did. I'll make him pay, if it's the last thing I do."

Illya freed the cuff from Napoleon's left wrist. He supported Napoleon with an arm, as he tried to move around his partner to get to his other wrist. Napoleon was weaker than he expected and while trying to keep Napoleon from falling, Illya slipped on some blood that remained on the floor. He leaned sharply into Napoleon. The gun went off. 

Illya turned his head quickly in time to see Gervaise slump to the ground. He glanced up at Napoleon.

Napoleon was looking at the gun. "Oops."

Illya shrugged and carefully freed Napoleon's right wrist, drawing a sweat as he concentrated on freeing the hand without jarring it. He slid his arm around Napoleon. "Do you think you can walk?" 

Napoleon grinned at Illya. "Partner, right now, I think I can do anything."

Illya didn't smile back.

"Illya, none of this is your fault."

Illya's lips tightened. "It is kind of you to say that, Napoleon, but it is not true. This is all my fault."

"It wasn't. I never believed her. I never blamed you."

"You should have."

Napoleon shook his head. "Illya…"

Illya got him over to the chair and assisted him down. "I do not wish to discuss this now. You need medical attention." He glanced at Napoleon. "And clothes."

Napoleon grinned. "Clothes are right down the hall." The effects of the adrenaline that had surged through his system and given him some energy were starting to evaporate. He leaned back, shaking, exhausted, the pain slamming him. "Is she dead?"

Illya crouched down by Gervaise, and felt for a pulse. After a few moments he nodded. "Yes."

"Good."

"I agree." He stood. "There are at least two others besides these. They accompanied me here."

"And someone brought me my meals." Napoleon closed his eyes, too tired to keep them open.

"So at least three." Illya glanced at Napoleon, questioning his ability to participate in a gunfight. He could barely even sit.

As if in communion with Illya's thoughts, Napoleon's legs started to give out.

Illya was across the room in seconds, catching him before he fell to the floor.

* * *

Waverly paced the length of his office. He glanced at his watch and growled in frustration. One of his own staff. One of his own. It was galling. And it had been luck alone that had resulted in her capture.

Just luck that Waverly had arrived in Medical to find an empty room where Kuryakin should have been. He'd ordered a lock-down on the building and then headed for security to watch the monitors. He'd arrived there in time to see one of the nurses from Medical shamelessly flirting with the monitor tech, who in turn was leaving all the monitors unsupervised.

Waverly had quickly stepped back out of the room before he was noticed, and called for security. Once they arrived, he'd announced his presence with a loud harrumph.

She'd foolishly tried to run but had been unsuccessful. Unfortunately, the ensuing interrogation had been an exercise in futility. Yes, she'd been reconditioning Illya every day, yes she'd unlocked his door and given him orders, but that was all she knew. She didn't know where the car was to take him, or what orders Illya would receive once he was there.

Waverly could guess, and he didn't like it one bit. Not one bit. Lisa burst into the room and Waverly looked up at her in surprise. That wasn't like her. 

She pointed at the microphone on his desk. "It's him. It's Illya. He's on the phone."

Waverly moved across his office quickly and picked up his microphone. "Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Yes, sir. It's me. I'm with Napoleon."

"Ah." There was a pause. "And how is Mr. Solo?" Based on the tone of the Russian's voice, Waverly was sure he was alive, but he wanted confirmation. 

Illya replied in his driest voice. "He'll survive. Which is more than I can say for anyone else here."

Waverly's voice did not reveal his enormous relief. "Miss Ravel?"

"Dead."

Waverly nodded. Good riddance to bad rubbish, he thought to himself. "Do you need assistance?"

"Yes, Napoleon needs medical assistance and we will need a pick up." Illya gave Waverly the address.

"I'll send someone out immediately." Waverly cleared his throat. "Are you suffering any ill-effects, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"None that I'm aware of, sir."

"Very good. I'll look for your return." Signing off. Mr. Waverly replaced his microphone, a satisfied smile on his face.

Illya hung up the phone, a tight smile on his face. Any ill effects? Other than almost killing his partner? Other than betraying him in every way he could? No, no ill effects.

Illya had lain Napoleon down among the other bodies, hoping if anyone came in they'd assume he was dead too. Then he'd gone off in search of clothes, and to ferret out any other danger before it came to find them. Three bodies later, with what clothes he could find, he'd then looked for a phone to call Waverly.

He headed back to Napoleon. He was still out. Illya got the drawstring pants worked up his body. After a few false starts, he managed to lift Napoleon over his shoulder and carried him out of the building. Finding a shadowed place to wait for their pick up, Illya sat down, settling Napoleon between his legs, Napoleon's back against his chest.

Napoleon was alive! That was all that mattered. He was alive. Illya wrapped his arms gingerly around his partner, conscious of his injuries, and laid his cheek on the top of Napoleon's head. He felt his solid warmth and allowed it to seep into his soul, letting him know that this particular nightmare had come to an end. Napoleon was alive, and Gervaise was dead.

With the warmth of Napoleon's body against his, Illya didn't want to think about tomorrow. Despite Napoleon's forgiving words tonight, which he didn't deserve, he would not be so forgiving when he found out why Gervaise had singled Napoleon out. How it was his fault entirely that Napoleon had been taken and tortured and used in this scheme to gain revenge on Illya. He couldn't imagine Napoleon maintaining his equanimity when faced with that.

Especially if it led to questions, which it inevitably would. Questions as to how Illya really felt about his partner. And Illya would have to tell Napoleon the truth; he deserved that much at least. And the information that his male Russian partner was in love with him would not sit well.

Illya fought the urge to hold Napoleon tighter, as if this might be the last time he would ever see or touch him. Closing his eyes he lost himself in the feel of Napoleon's body.

* * *

Napoleon lay quietly as consciousness slowly returned. His memories were still sleeping and he tried to stir them. The only part of him that indicated life was his fingers as he felt the cloth under his hand. 

The fact that he had slept so deeply suggested that he was in safe hands, as did the softer cloth beneath his fingers. All he'd slept on while captive was a canvas cot with no covering at all.

Napoleon was hesitant to jump to conclusions too quickly. His mind had fooled him before while in captivity. Holding on to dreams a little too long, his subconscious unwilling to face another day of misery. He hurt; he knew that much for sure. Even lying still, he hurt. 

He prodded a mental finger at his memories, demanding they give up their secrets. What was the last thing he remembered? It took him a moment but then it came back to him. Illya. Illya had been carrying him, and then, his brow furrowed as he thought harder, and then he'd been holding him.

Napoleon could remember that feeling. Those strong arms holding him so gently. Napoleon smiled, recalling his sense of security at that moment. Illya's strength, Illya's smell, Illya. There'd been no reason to fight to stay awake if Illya was there, if Illya was watching over him, so he'd let the darkness claim him.

More memories came back and his eyes shot open. Illya. Standing in front of him, gun drawn, aiming. "Illya?"

"He's not here, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon's eyes darted around the room until they lit on his boss. "Is he all right?" Napoleon was surprised his partner wasn't there. He was always there when Napoleon woke from an injury, just as he was always there when it was Illya who'd been wounded.

"In a manner of speaking."

Napoleon frowned at the cryptic words. He tried to sit up, and let out an unbidden moan. He had foolishly assumed that the pain he'd experienced while lying still was the majority of it. 

"I might suggest less sudden movements."

Napoleon lay back. "I think I agree with you, sir."

The doctor entered the room. "Ah, Napoleon, you're finally awake."

"How long have I been out?"

"Close to twelve hours."

Napoleon requested for the head of the bed to be raised. The doctor obliged by turning the crank until Napoleon nodded his satisfaction. He turned his head to face Dr. Wilson. "What's the verdict? Am I going to live?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "You're like a cat, Napoleon. You and that partner of yours. But one of these days you'll run out of lives."

Napoleon glanced down at his body, trying to catalog his injuries through a visual inspection. The only obvious bandaging was a significant splinting of his right hand and a cast on his right arm. Under his hospital gown he could feel the tight wrap around his ribs. "Nothing irreparable, I take it?"

"Several broken ribs, a kidney we'll have to keep an eye on, three broken fingers in your right hand, a hairline fracture of your right ulna, and more cuts and bruises than I could count. A few of the cuts required stitches and were doing their best to get infected. You're going to be hurting for a while."

Napoleon ran the list of injuries through his mind. Nothing he couldn't live with. He moved on to the topic that concerned him more. "Illya?"

Wilson shook his head in disbelief. "None of us have ever seen a conditioning like that. Under interrogation, Sarah gave us all the information we needed about the process."

"Sarah? The nurse Sarah?" Napoleon had liked her. Illya had liked her. As much as he liked anyone who worked in Medical. "She was the traitor Gervaise had on the inside?"

Waverly cleared his throat. "Yes, apparently she'd been working on him for months. And once he was here, she gave him a treatment every night. She was also the one who set him free."

Napoleon's lips tightened at the thought of such betrayal. "Why? Why was she helping Gervaise?"

"The oldest reason in the book, Mr. Solo. Money."

Napoleon shook his head, letting out a small bitter laugh. He looked back up at the doctor. "You undid it?"

Wilson nodded. "It took us hours. It was laid very deep. It had to be to interfere with his deeply ingrained inhibitions. It was what made it so effective."

Napoleon gestured at his still alive body. "Not that effective."

Wilson snorted out a laugh. "I know. The boys in the lab are in awe that Illya was able to countermand the conditioning. According to them, that conditioning was just about foolproof."

Waverly harrumphed. "It will be a valuable weapon in our arsenal. After you and Mr. Kuryakin were picked up, the building was searched and all information regarding the treatment was confiscated. I'll rest easier at night knowing it's in our hands."

Napoleon nodded. "Amen to that." He took in both men with a look. "Did he tell you what he was ordered to do?"

They both nodded. Wilson sighed. "She was a vicious woman. I find myself disturbingly relieved that she's dead."

Napoleon shifted in the bed, trying to get more comfortable. "You and me both."

Waverly waved his unlit pipe at Napoleon. "That was quite clever of you to use the code words to get Illya to turn against Gervaise."

Napoleon shook his head. "Well, it would have been even more clever if it had worked, but he was already breaking through the conditioning at that point and didn't obey either of us." He eyed his water glass.

Wilson moved forward and held the glass with the straw to Napoleon's lips. "Just a sip."

Napoleon took his sip. "What was it that broke the conditioning? Do you know? How did he do it?"

Wilson let Napoleon take another sip and then put the glass back on the bedside table. "It was your gun."

"What?"

"He'd been told to take out his gun and shoot you. But when he pulled out the gun it was your gun, not his."

Napoleon frowned. "That's it?"

"It was enough, apparently. It made him question the order, his ability to follow through, and as his mind followed the conundrum to its core, he realized it was your gun, and where he was, and what he was about to do."

Napoleon closed his eyes for a moment, reliving those seconds of terror as Illya had taken aim. "I went through a few of my lives right then, Doc. Illya doesn't miss what he's aiming at." He shifted again. God, he hurt everywhere.

Wilson reached for Napoleon's IV tubing, and pulled out a syringe, inserting it in a port. "Time for a little pain medicine. You need to rest."

"There's not much else I can do." Napoleon could feel the beginning effects of the drug as a delicious lassitude swept through his body. He glanced up at Waverly. "Where is he? What did you mean, in a manner of speaking?"

Waverly waved off the question. "We'll talk about it later."

Napoleon tried to frown; he tried to shake his head. "No…" But, any further protests were lost as he succumbed to the undertow of the sedative.

* * *

When he woke next, he was alone. All his memories woke up with him this time. He wondered what Waverly had meant. He wondered where his partner was. Napoleon needed to talk to him, convince him that he didn't blame Illya for any of this. If he knew his Russian friend, Illya was probably off hiding somewhere, licking his wounds, assuming that Napoleon would sever their partnership, their friendship.

Never. That would never happen; the thought of it was unbearable. Illya was too important. Essential. Essential in so many ways. Napoleon couldn't imagine his life without the taciturn Russian in it. He felt a renewed sense of urgency to speak to Illya, before he did anything stupid.

He was about to push the call button when Mr. Waverly walked in. It made Napoleon nervous. He could understand his boss being there when he first woke up, but a second visit was unheard of. Without preamble, Napoleon started the conversation. "Where is he?"

As if cued for this conversation, Waverly immediately answered. "I expect he's at his apartment."

Napoleon began the hunt for the truth. "Why isn't he here?"

Waverly looked at the floor for a moment. "The events of the last few days have taken a toll on Mr. Kuryakin."

Napoleon nodded. "Understandably, and…?" There was another pause. Napoleon's stomach started to churn. "And…?"

"He resigned, Mr. Solo." 

Napoleon's jaw dropped. "What?"

"After being here most of the night being deprogrammed, and then checking in to make sure you were out of danger, he went home. First thing in the morning he returned to hand in his communicator and gun, and resigned."

"And you let him go?"

"I was hardly in a position to stop him. Resigning is not a criminal offense."

Napoleon grabbed the side rail with his good hand and sat up, ignoring the pain. "You let him go?" He knew his tone was skirting disrespect.

"Yes, I let him go. Or, I should say, I let him leave the building. But I did not accept his resignation. I told him that he was to take two weeks vacation, and if he still wished to resign at that time, I would consider it."

"And…?" Napoleon wished Waverly would tell the whole damn story at once.

"He was not happy with my amendment. He insisted I accept his resignation, stating that he was not to be trusted, and that he was a risk to UNCLE."

Napoleon's heart clenched for what his partner was going through. "And...?"

"I told him I didn't agree."

"And…?" 

"And he left. I haven't spoken with him since, although I do know he's called here several times, checking on your progress."

Napoleon ran a hand over his face, wincing as he encountered several bruises and his split lip. "I need to see him."

"Yes, you do, as I suspect you are the only person who will be able to talk any sense into him."

Napoleon looked around the room, looking for his clothes. "I have to get out of here."

"Mr. Solo, I am not sure that arriving at his doorstep looking the way you do will help change his mind. I would advise waiting a few days."

Napoleon shook his head. "No, I have to talk to him now. You don't understand. The longer he's by himself with nothing else to think about but what's happened, the more convinced he'll become that he's right." Napoleon didn't mention his biggest fear, which was that if he waited too long, he'd go over to Illya's and find that he was gone. That his partner would realize that the most expedient way to resign was simply to disappear.

Waverly looked skeptical.

Napoleon grinned, trying to charm, wincing again at the pain in his lip. "Besides, if I show up all wounded, he'll feel guilty and decide he has to take care of me, and it will give me more time with him." He knew he was the Russian's soft spot. If Illya was there, and Napoleon managed to get across his threshold, he wouldn't be going anywhere.

"Yes, well, I suspect you know him better than anyone." Waverly frowned, his bushy brows furrowed. "However, Dr. Wilson will need to approve your discharge."

Napoleon waved that concern off. Both he and Illya were experts at getting out of Medical long before they had any business being on their own. 

This time was no different. Within an hour he was dressed in the change of clothes he always kept at work, a long list of discharge instructions in his hand, and a bag of supplies at his feet. 

* * *

Napoleon insisted they just drop him off. The driver argued for a minute, having received explicit instructions from Dr. Wilson to escort Napoleon to his apartment. But that didn't mesh with Napoleon's plans. He needed to appear at Illya's door, exhausted, unable to take another step. He needed to immediately appeal to his partner's deeply hidden nurturing tendencies, which only seemed to appear when Napoleon looked near death.

So, near death he'd be. Napoleon watched the car drive away, tenuously holding on to his bag of supplies with his good hand, trying to keep the bag away from his body so it wouldn't swing against him and any of his cuts and bruises. 

He stared at the front door and frowned. He probably should have let the driver get the door because right now he was out of hands. Obstacle number one. If he encountered enough obstacles he'd truly be a wreck by the time he got to Illya's. Napoleon focused on that goal. If he were a wreck, Illya would have to let him in. And once he was in, he wasn't leaving until he talked some sense into his partner.

He finally ended up putting the supplies down, opening the door, holding it open with his body, while he picked the supplies back up. Napoleon bit back a cry as his movement inadvertently caused the door to swing against him. Moving into the lobby, he rested for a moment before targeting the elevators.

Napoleon was always surprised at how exhausting pain was. The pain was one thing, but the weariness snuck up on him. He'd barely gone ten feet and he was sure he could close his eyes and fall asleep standing up. He made it to the elevators on grit alone, and pushed the up button. 

He carefully leaned against the marble, enjoying the cooler temperature against his heated skin. The ding of the arriving elevator snapped him out of an impromptu nap. His body jerked awake and the pain of the sudden movement forced a cry out of him. 

Napoleon almost pulled out his communicator to call Illya to come get him. But he was afraid if he did, that Illya would help him to his apartment, get him settled in and then leave. No, he had to get to Illya's. Besides, he remembered, Illya's communicator was currently at headquarters, probably lying on the table in Waverly's office. He entered the elevator, pushed the appropriate floor and waited, the bag of supplies growing heavier by the moment.

Disgruntled at his weakness, despite his plan, Napoleon tried to stand up straighter. That hurt too. Everything hurt. A lot. He started having second thoughts. Somehow, the idea of being in Medical and having some wonderful sedative injected into his IV tubing, and feeling the rush of the medicine as it pulled him into sleep under watchful eyes didn't sound too bad. He conjured an image of Illya. It helped motivate him. 

The elevator dinged out its destination, and the doors opened. Napoleon staggered out and tried to remember where Illya's door was. It took him a moment, the hallways shrinking and expanding on him as if he were at a carnival fun house. He guessed left and moved. 

Habit, rather than conscious memory took him to the right door. Napoleon dropped his supplies to the ground and lifted his left hand to knock on the door. No one answered. He knocked again. Then he leaned against the door until it was holding most of his weight, and he rested the palm of his hand against the door and slapped it on the wood. God, he was tired.

A voice from within finally answered. "Go away."

Napoleon felt a surge of relief to hear his partner. For a moment he had been afraid that Illya had already left. "Illya. Let me in."

"Napoleon, go home. We can talk later."

Napoleon didn't think he could even stand any more, let alone walk back to the elevator and to his own apartment. His knees started to buckle as his exhaustion dragged him down. There was a hint of acute need in his voice as he called out to his friend one more time. "Illya."

It was enough to get Illya to the door. He opened it and Napoleon lost his balance completely and fell. Only Illya's fast reflexes kept him from crashing to the floor. There, he thought to himself as he let Illya's strength pick up for his slack, I’m in.

* * *

Napoleon let Illya take charge. He wasn't even sure he'd protest if Illya called to have someone at UNCLE pick him up and take him back to Medical. But he didn't. Instead, Illya got him settled on the couch, with surprisingly little pain, got his shoes off, a pillow under his head, a blanket over his body, all accompanied by softly muttered dire imprecations. 

Napoleon couldn't have been happier. Except for the pain. That was extremely bothersome. As if conjured by mental telepathy, Illya held out two pain pills and a glass of water. "Here, take these."

Napoleon looked wearily at the glass. To drink meant to move. Illya pursed his lips, put the pills and glass down and sat on the very edge of the couch, up by Napoleon's head. He slipped a hand under Napoleon's upper back, slipping his shoulder behind the wounded man to lend support. Then he picked the pills back up and spoke. "Open your mouth."

Like a baby bird, Napoleon parted his lips. Illya dropped the pills in. Then he reached for the glass. "Take a sip."

Napoleon took a sip, then another. The pills went down. He nodded and Illya placed the glass on the table and then gently lay Napoleon back down. He stayed sitting on the edge of the couch, but he shifted his body so he was facing Napoleon. "Why did Wilson let you leave?"

Napoleon shrugged and then winced. "He always lets us leave." 

"Not if the other one of us isn't there promising to take over nursemaid duties."

Napoleon gave him a baleful stare. "Well, you weren't there. So, I came here instead." He frowned, wanting to hear it from his partner, or ex-partner if the Russian had his way. "And why exactly weren't you there, anyway?" He prodded Illya's leg with his left hand. "You're supposed to be there."

Illya had the decency to look shamefaced and glanced away. "I couldn't imagine you'd want me there. Not after what I did."

Napoleon wrapped his fingers around Illya's forearm. "Illya, I don't blame you. What I said before was the truth. I trust you."

Illya's face tightened with unhappiness. "You shouldn't."

"Well, I do." Napoleon wasn't sure if it was the pills taking effect already, or his overall exhaustion, but in any case, despite his need to have this conversation, he knew this wasn't the right time. "I have to sleep. But when I wake up, we're picking up right here and finishing this conversation."

Illya sighed.

Napoleon tightened his grip on Illya's forearm. "You'll still be here when I wake up?"

Illya nodded. "I'll be here."

Napoleon gave Illya a small smile. "Good, then I can sleep." His hand let loose of Illya's arm, and within seconds he was out.

Illya looked down at him, loving him so much it made his heart feel too large for his chest. Giving in to temptation he reached up and brushed the errant forelock back that was forever falling over Napoleon's forehead. 

There was so much about Napoleon he would miss, important things like his company, and their conversation, and having someone he trusted at his back. But, it was the little things, like that lock of hair, that Illya knew he'd miss the most.

He appreciated Napoleon's words. He was even certain that Napoleon meant them. But it didn't change anything. This was twice now he'd been used as an instrument to kill his partner. Not to mention the times he'd been taken as bait to reel Napoleon in. Napoleon would be safer without him.

For a moment, he thought about going back on his word. Thought about packing a suitcase, and leaving, calling UNCLE to come for Napoleon. But he couldn't bear to think about the look on Napoleon's face when he realized that Illya had betrayed him yet again. 

Right now, Napoleon needed him. So, he'd stay, and he'd get Napoleon through the next few days, and then he'd leave. Illya glanced down as Napoleon stirred restlessly on the couch. Without thought, Illya laid his hand softly on Napoleon's chest and spoke softly. "You're safe, Napoleon."

Napoleon stilled, a small smile on his face. All the time he slept, Illya sat on the couch, and kept guard.

* * *

Napoleon opened his eyes to find Illya sitting right where he'd been, right at his side, where he belonged. He flashed his partner a lopsided smile. "Hey."

Illya smiled tightly back. "Hey."

Napoleon did his best to stretch, but it hurt so he stopped. He half grinned, half grimaced up at Illya. "When I said we'd start the conversation right where we left it, I didn't mean you couldn't move." 

Illya made as if to move.

Napoleon grabbed his arm. "No, stay. I'm glad you were there. If I'd woken up and you hadn't been there, I'd have suspected the worst."

Illya looked away guiltily, and Napoleon was relieved his partner had chosen to stay next to him, and in the apartment, and, at least for the moment, in his life. Then he frowned. "Do you have anything I could drink, like juice or something? My mouth tastes like something died in it."

Illya nodded, then graced Napoleon with a dry smile. "May I have your permission to move?"

Napoleon realized he was still holding on to Illya. He narrowed his eyes. "Only if you come right back here, to this spot." Napoleon waited until he saw the silent agreement in Illya's eyes, and then let go of his arm.

He listened as Illya rattled about the kitchen, getting his drink. He came back holding two glasses of what looked like apple juice. Napoleon's taste buds were already anticipating the crisp clear taste. He took the glass and drank half of it down, the coolness refreshing.

Illya drank some of his, then sat, not on the couch, but on the coffee table directly in front of the couch. Napoleon decided it was close enough. He was still close enough to grab Illya if he tried to make a run for it.

Napoleon attempted to adjust the pillow behind him so he could sit up a little. Illya moved immediately to help him. Napoleon decided he must be looking pretty bad for Illya to be pampering him this way. 

Napoleon felt pretty alert after his nap. He still hurt like hell, but he was ready to have it out with his partner. He waited until Illya sat across from him again. The Russian adopted one of his most stoic looks, as if preparing himself for the lashing he justly deserved. For a moment Napoleon wondered if that would be more affective. Maybe he needed to punch Illya in the nose, and then his partner would feel aptly punished. 

No, a punch wouldn't be enough. Illya would probably want Napoleon to shoot him. Besides, he didn't feel up to punching anybody, let alone his best friend. He was just going to have to dazzle his partner with the ultimate of logical persuasion. Napoleon wasn't sure he was up to that either, but he had to try.

Napoleon glanced up at Illya. No doubt he was gearing up his own arguments as to why he was a worthless partner and a worse friend, and why Napoleon would be better off with someone new. The thought of losing Illya was so painful he winced at the thought.

Illya winced back. "Do you need more pain medication?" Illya picked up the bottle and read it. "You are not supposed to have any more for another hour but…"

Napoleon shook his head. "No, I'm fine." At the look on Illya's face, he qualified his answer. "Okay, I'm not fine, but it's bearable. I can wait."

"Maybe you should sleep some more."

"Not until we have this talk."

Illya's eyes dropped to the floor and he bit his lower lip. "Napoleon. I know it's inadequate, but I’m sorry and I will make sure I am never used against you again."

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

Illya stared at him with incredulous eyes. "Nothing to be sorry for? I led you into an ambush, and then stood by and did nothing, as you were beaten and kidnapped." He stood up and retreated a few feet until he was on the far side of the coffee table. "I watched and did nothing." Illya spit the words out.

"Illya."

"No, you must listen to me. This is twice now I have been used to try and kill you. Twice an enemy has found a way to reach into my brain and turn all that I am against you. I cannot be trusted."

Napoleon attempted to sit up higher and grimaced as his ribs protested. The only good thing about it was that it brought Illya back over to the couch to assist. Napoleon grabbed his hand and forced him to sit. Illya sat on the coffee table again, his face tight with misery. Napoleon gave him a reassuring smile. "You're looking at this completely backwards."

The look this time was one of bewilderment. "What?"

"Illya. You're right. Twice now you've been programmed to kill me. And twice, you've failed. Failed. No matter what they did, or what drugs they pumped you full of, you've failed. They couldn't make you do it. Twice now you've had a gun pointing at me, ready to kill me from point blank range and yet, here I am. Alive. From where I'm sitting, what that tells me is that there is no one in the world I can trust as much as I can trust you."

Napoleon bit back a grin as his words momentarily stymied his partner. Then he could see the wheels turning as Illya fought for more arguments.

"If Sarah hadn't found your gun here at my apartment, and given it to me by mistake, I would have shot you."

"That's bullshit and you know it. Your mind was looking for an out. The gun gave it to you. If you didn't have my gun, you'd have decided the light was wrong, or the way the order was voiced was wrong, or the planets weren't aligned correctly. You'd have come up with something to find a way not to obey that order."

"That's wishful thinking on your part, Napoleon."

"No, it isn't. Because I'm still alive. She gave you an order that was about as black and white as an order can be. And you didn't do it. Plain and simple."

Illya frowned.

Napoleon grinned. "Any more arguments?"

"Yes, I still get used as bait." The voice was disgruntled.

"Yes, you do, but you know what that gets me?"

"No."

"It gets me into a situation I was going to end up in anyway, but you're there to help me out when I get there. All it does is cut out the time trying to figure out where the bad guys are hiding out." Napoleon reached out with his left hand, and prodded Illya's knee. "Face it, we're good together, and nothing you say or do is going to change my mind about that. I trust you. Now and always. No matter what."

Illya wasn't ready to be convinced. Napoleon tried one more time. "Look, we've discovered a new conditioning regimen for UNCLE. We discovered and eliminated a traitor in our midst, we rid the world of Gervaise Ravel and her thugs, you've completely impressed Medical with the powers of your mind, and I'll be good as new in a few days. All's well that ends well."

Napoleon thought that should take care of it. Therefore he was surprised when he looked up and saw sadness cross his partner's face. 

Illya glanced away. "She thought we were lovers."

Napoleon scrunched his face up. "I know. She said that to me, too. Where did she get that idea from?"

Illya let out a sigh. "From me."

Napoleon gave Illya a startled look. "From you? What do you mean? You told Gervaise we were lovers?"

Illya shook his head and stood. "No. I told her nothing. I didn't need to."

Napoleon rolled his eyes. "Illya, I don't have the energy to pull answers out of you. Can you quit the cryptic act and just spit out what you're trying to say?"

Illya moved across the room and picked up a large manila envelope. He held it for a moment as if considering what action to take, then he walked back across the room and handed it to Napoleon. "She sent these to me."

* * *

Napoleon looked up at Illya as he reached inside the envelope. "Gervaise?"

Illya nodded. "It will help you understood why she thought that you and I…" Illya shrugged tightly. "You will see why this is all my fault." He didn't sit down, but rather picked up their glasses to go refill them.

Napoleon pulled out the pictures. His eyebrows shot up as he saw the top one. He flipped through the pictures quickly and called out, "These are of the both of us."

Illya's voice was tense. "Yes, they are."

Napoleon's voice was admiring. "They're good. Who took them?"

"I don't know."

"Whoever it was must have been following us around for weeks. I can't believe we didn't see them. It doesn't speak very highly of us as spies." Napoleon started going through the pictures more slowly. "We should start a scrapbook."

Illya didn't say anything.

Napoleon glanced up at him and saw, through the opening under the one set of cabinets, that Illya was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. "What are you doing in there?"

"Just look at the pictures, Napoleon."

Napoleon frowned, but complied. He looked at the first picture again. Napoleon smiled. They were coming out of a jazz nightclub, Illya's preferred night spot. Napoleon touched Illya's face in the photo. He was so animated, so unlike his usually taciturn affect. Not that Napoleon saw it often anymore, at least not when they were alone.

One of Illya's favorite performers had been the main act, and Napoleon had pulled some strings and gotten tickets. After the show, Illya had talked for an hour non-stop about the performance. Napoleon, not being a music aficionado, other than knowing what he liked and didn't like, hadn't understand much of what he'd said.

  
Napoleon had made the right noises of accompaniment and let Illya wax poetic to his heart's content. Napoleon could remember being tickled at Illya's excitement. He so rarely got to see this level of enthusiasm, and it had warmed him that he had helped create it by the simple act of buying tickets. He'd made a vow that night to do it as often as he could. 

Napoleon's finger moved to touch his face in the photo. He could see that vow on his face. Whatever it takes to please you like this, his face was saying, I will do it.

He flipped to the next picture and let out a laugh. He held it up to Illya. "Remember this? You were trying to talk me into a Siberian winter wonderland." When he got no answer from his partner, Napoleon glanced at him.

Illya was staring at the linoleum, his face a dark study.

Napoleon called to him. "Illya, come here." When he got no response, he called again. "Illya." He used an underhanded approach, and went right for the guilt. "This position hurts, I need your help to move."

That got a response. Illya crossed over to him. "What do you need me to do?"

"Help me sit up more."

Illya plumped pillows, and got Napoleon arranged so he was sitting up. Illya pushed the coffee table closer and laid a pillow on it, helping Napoleon lift his legs so he could stretch them out in front of him. "There. Is that what you wanted?"

Napoleon reached up with his good hand and pulled on Illya. "Almost. Now you sit."

Illya tugged back. He pulled a little too hard and it jerked Napoleon's body and he let out a small cry. Illya cursed in Russian. "Napoleon, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Napoleon closed his eyes for a second until the pain passed. Then he patted the couch next to him. "Sit. I mean it."

Illya sat, barely.

Napoleon let out a frustrated sigh. "Relax."

Illya glowered at him. "I am sitting." He was clearly not willing to make a further concession. 

Napoleon figured Illya sitting on the edge of the couch was better than Illya packing his bag. He waved the picture at Illya. "Do you remember this?"

"Yes."

"Are you always this much fun when you're looking through old photographs?"

"I don't have any old photographs, Napoleon."

Napoleon glanced at his partner. No, he didn't suppose Illya would have kept too many photos. For that matter, he didn't have many. The few he had he kept in a security box. It was dangerous to leave pictures lying around. Too easy for an enemy to steal and either distribute pictures of you to the wrong people, or for them to target people you loved. He could probably keep these. Everyone already knew how he felt about Illya.

For some reason that thought echoed in his head as he stared at the picture in his lap. He pushed it away and focused on that particular dinner. "We never did decide where to go, did we?"

Illya shook his head. "Just someplace warm, with a beach and beautiful women."

Napoleon let out a satisfied sigh. "I wish we were on that beach right now." He touched the photo where Illya had his hand on his arm. "I wish we could go there on vacation."

Illya's brow furrowed. "Go where? To the beach?"

"No, to Russia."

"You want to go to Russia on vacation?"

Napoleon gave Illya a lopsided grin. "Well, I admit it wouldn’t ordinarily be at the top of my list, but I'd like to go sometime when we're not on a mission, and in danger of our lives, or when I'm not worried that you won't be able to get out."

"Why?"

"Because it's your home. And I know it doesn't have a lot of happy memories for you, but I'd still like to go to Kiev and walk down the streets and see it through your eyes. Hear what it was like, hear what memories it holds for you." He had looked away for a moment; embarrassed at his own words, worried he might have said too much to his very private partner. 

He finally risked a look and gave his partner a shy and fleeting grin. "It's a part of you. That makes it important." Illya's eyes rose to meet his, and for a moment Napoleon was lost in blue. Illya's gaze was openly affectionate, maybe even… Then Illya blinked and looked away, and the moment was gone.

Napoleon put his attention back on the photos. He flipped to the next one and let out a soft laugh. "God, that mad man on that bicycle was out for blood. I'd have landed right on my ass if you hadn't caught me." He glanced up at Illya, his eyes twinkling. "That was a nice save, partner." He looked at the picture for another second, saw how he was looking at Illya; it looked as if he were going to kiss him.

Napoleon cleared his throat and moved to the next picture. It was a few minutes later, after the bicycle incident, as they walked down the street. He was blabbing about something. "God, I talked all day, didn't I?"

"I liked it."

Napoleon looked at Illya. "Did you?"

Illya nodded. "I like hearing about your life."

Napoleon let out an agreeable noise. "That was a good day." He ran his fingers over the two figures in the photo. "I kept waiting for you to come up with some excuse to leave, something you had to go do. But you didn't. You spent the whole day with me, and the evening too."

Illya looked taken aback. "You kept waiting for me to leave? I kept expecting you to leave, to tell me you had a date with one of your admirers."

Napoleon let out a soft chuff. "Illya, I'd rather spend time with you than anyone I know."

That got a smile. A slow, full smile. 

Napoleon was caught again. A golden current of electricity coiled up his spine, right to his heart. Shaken, Napoleon turned back to the pictures. He flipped to the next one and tapped it. “This was when you got shot.”

Illya nodded. “In the leg.”

Napoleon pursed his lips. “You should have let me stay.” Another glance at Illya found that he had settled in on the couch, no longer looking as if waiting for an opportunity to flee.

Illya sighed. “Yes, I should have. But you had a date.”

“With who?”

The corners of Illya’s lips turned up. “You don’t remember?”

Napoleon shook his head. “I just remember worrying about you.”

“It was Melissa.”

“Who’s Melissa?”

“A stewardess you met on that trip to Vienna.”

Napoleon thought for a minute. Granted he was on drugs, but he couldn’t remember a Melissa to save his life. All he remembered about that night was feeling annoyed with Illya for pushing him out the door, and then resisting the urge to call him every ten minutes to make sure he was okay. “Do you remember when I finally called you, you fell asleep on me, right on the phone?”

“You were better than a sleeping pill.”

“That boring?”

Illya shook his head. “I like the sound of your voice. It helped me relax. It was the first time I’d slept since you left.” 

Napoleon felt a burst of pride way out of proportion to the simple compliment. But it made him feel good to know that his voice had made such a difference. After he’d hung up, once he realized that Illya was dead to the world, Napoleon had set his alarm clock early enough to drop in on his partner before work. He shook his head. He had no idea where Melissa had ended up that night, but it hadn’t been in his bed.

Napoleon flipped to the next picture. He held it out to Illya. “Well, how about this one? You had a date this night.” It was a photo of the two of them looking in a store front window. Illya was directly in front, and Napoleon was behind him, a bit to the side, peering over Illya. It looked as if his chin was resting on his partner’s shoulder.

Illya took the picture. “I had a date?”

“As unlikely as that sounds, yes, you had a date. In fact, it was the third time you’d gone out with her.”

Illya shot Napoleon a disbelieving look. “You kept track of how many times I dated this woman?”

Napoleon nodded. “Yes. And her name was Gail.”

Illya sat there, a pensive look on his face. Then his eyes lit up. “Ah, Gail. Now I remember.” He glanced at Napoleon. “What ever happened to her?”

Napoleon shrugged. “How am I supposed to know?”

“You remembered that I dated her three times.” His face grew apprehensive. “Did you like her, Napoleon? Did you want to date her?”

Napoleon gave him an amused look. “God, no.” He looked back at the picture. For some reason, Illya had stopped at this window, and it had been full of engagement and wedding rings. For one heart stopping moment, Napoleon had wondered if Gail was the one. If Illya was considering asking her to marry him.

Napoleon remembered that it had filled him with unease. And it had made him decide not to like Gail. He took the picture back and tapped the window pane. “I thought you were thinking of marrying her.”

Illya looked horrified. “After three dates?”

“For all I knew, you’d had more dates with her, I don’t keep tabs on you all the time, you know.”

“What made you think I was that serious about her?”

“The window display was of engagement rings and wedding sets.”

Illya took the picture again, trying to see. “Are you sure?”

Napoleon nodded. “Very sure.”

Illya shrugged, and handed the picture back to Napoleon. “I think if I was that serious about somebody, I would tell you, and not give you covert hints and make you guess.” 

Napoleon frowned at that. The idea of Illya being serious about someone didn’t sit well. He looked at the picture and closed his eyes, remembering the moment. He had rested his chin on Illya’s shoulder and he recalled thinking that Illya smelled good. He’d had to resist the temptation to turn his nose into his partner’s neck to take a deeper breath, sure that Illya would think he’d gone crazy.

“Are you all right, Napoleon?”

Napoleon opened his eyes and glanced at his partner. “Hmm?”

“Do you need to sleep again?”

A thought was coalescing in Napoleon’s brain. Something about the pictures. Something that linked them all together. Then it clicked, like a light bulb turning on. He shook his head in answer to Illya’s question, and he started going through all the pictures.

He scrutinized every one, occasionally reaching out and touching his own face in the photos, or wherever he was touching Illya. It was there in every picture, his feelings for Illya. A pictorial of how much Illya meant to him. Napoleon sensed movement and he glanced at Illya and saw that he was back to perching, his body hunched. Napoleon grabbed Illya’s arm, holding him captive. “Why did I never see it?”

Illya shook his head, his eyes on the floor. “I didn’t see it either.”

“I don't understand how I could have been so blind.”

“I am sorry, Napoleon. I put you in danger.”

Napoleon was confused. “What are you talking about?”

“It is why she thought we were lovers.”

“I agree, but why are you sorry?”

“It is written all over my face, the way I look at you, touch you.”

Through his confusion, Napoleon felt an indefinable hope grow in him. He risked letting go of Illya’s arm to tap the pictures. “What did you see when you looked at these?” 

Illya sat back on the couch, defeated. “That I am in love with you.”

Napoleon’s eyes opened wide at Illya’s interpretation. “That what?” He looked down at the pictures in his lap. “Did you even look at these?”

Illya reached for the pictures and waved them at Napoleon. “For days I looked at them, for hours on end. All I could see is that because of me, because of feelings I didn’t even know I had, Gervaise chose you to get revenge on me. So, you see, Napoleon, no matter what you say, it is my fault.”

Napoleon grabbed the pictures back, and started going through them again. This time he looked for it, and so, he saw it. He saw the look on Illya’s face, the way his partner touched him, and the way he watched him. Napoleon drank it in, feeling like a starving man at a banquet. Every picture spoke of love, of commitment, of more than he’d ever hoped to find.

He wanted to hug Illya. Instead he smiled. “You did the same thing I did. All you saw was yourself, and what you were doing. Look at me.”

Illya gave Napoleon a puzzled glance. “What?”

“Look at the pictures, but this time, look at me. Really look.” He handed the pictures to Illya. “Look.”

Illya took them reluctantly but began obediently flipping through them.

Napoleon could tell the instant it got through. Illya’s posture changed, from one of guilt to one of discovery. He flipped through the pictures slower. The question was carefully phrased. “What exactly did you see, Napoleon, when you looked at these pictures?”

“That I was in love with you.” Napoleon’s hand stopped Illya at a certain photograph. “Remember that night?”

Illya nodded. It was the night Napoleon had insisted he come up to his apartment, the night they’d spent in front of the fire drinking and talking.

“Look at my face.”

Illya looked. When he glanced over at Napoleon his face was flushed. “You…”

“I wanted you, Illya. Look at my eyes. I was pleading with you to spend time with me. You’d have broken my heart if you’d said no.” Napoleon clumsily fingered one-handed through the photographs until he found the one in front of the UN. “Look at this one. I wanted to kiss you.” He found another one, the one where he was helping Illya out of the car after he’d been shot. “And look at this one. I couldn’t wait to get my arms around you. And once I had you, I didn’t want to let you go. I didn’t give a fig for whoever I was supposed to see that night. I wanted to be with you.”

Napoleon shook his head and let out a half laugh. “Gervaise must have had a field day with these. It’s no wonder she thought we were lovers. I’m looking at them, and I think we’re lovers.” He glanced at Illya. “Or that we should be.”

Illya shared a wry grin. “Mr. Waverly thought we already were.” His cheeks flushed. “He was surprised to find out that we weren’t.”

Napoleon’s jaw dropped. “Waverly thought we were together? And he didn’t care?”

Illya shook his head. “He mostly just seemed perturbed that I felt the need to hide it from him. I’m sure he thought I was quite parochial.” 

The two men laughed a little and then grew silent. Napoleon put his finger gingerly on his split lip, the smiling and laughter had stretched it and made it sting. 

Illya let out a long sigh and leaned back against the couch. “What happens now?”

Napoleon rested his head back as well, then turned it so he was facing Illya. He seemed so close, and yet too far away. “I have no idea.” And Napoleon didn’t. This was unexplored territory for him. He didn’t really know what Illya wanted, what this meant, what it might lead to, how this might affect them. He just didn’t know. And he was exhausted again. And in pain. “Is it time for a pain pill yet?”

Illya leaned forward and picked up the bottle. He checked the time. “Yes.” He opened it and tapped out two pills, and handed them to Napoleon.

Napoleon placed them in his mouth and then took the offered cup of apple juice, taking several swallows to get them down. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Napoleon could hear an uncertainty in Illya’s voice and he didn’t want it there. He took a chance, and reached for Illya’s hand, lacing his fingers through those of his partner. “Actually, I do know one thing we can do now.”

“What?”

Napoleon gazed at Illya’s face, so earnest, so ready to be given a new set of instructions to deal with this confusing emotional minefield they now found themselves in. Napoleon wished he had a set of blueprints for his own comfort. “It’s simple. What we do now, what you do now, is stay with me. Don’t leave me. I can’t do this alone. I can’t do the work without you, and I don’t even want to imagine living my life without you. So, you stay, and we figure it out, together. All right?”

Illya gave him a long look. Then he slowly nodded. “All right.”

Napoleon let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding, and smiled. “Good.” Napoleon allowed his eyes to wander over Illya’s face experiencing a dual sensation of seeing a face already so known and dear to him, and also seeing it as if Illya were someone entirely new. His eyes drifted to Illya’s blond hair and he raised his hand. “May I?”

Illya tilted his head, his brow furrowed, a small grin on his face. “You have touched my hair before without asking for permission.”

“I know, but I want to ask anyway. May I?”

Illya nodded. Napoleon had indeed touched Illya’s hair, on multiple occasions, and often for no reason, except that he wanted to. But, he’d never fully indulged himself, limiting himself to acceptable touches, given the parameters of their relationship.

He gave himself free rein now. He threaded his fingers through Illya’s hair, letting the silky strands slip through. An intense pleasure rippled through Napoleon’s body. He suddenly knew that whatever Illya was willing to give, he would take.

He ran his fingers through Illya’s hair again and watched as Illya closed his eyes, his lips parting softly on a sigh. And Napoleon knew that whatever he wanted, Illya would give. His partner had stood by his side for years, never backing down no matter what was tossed their way. For better, for worse, good times, and bad, successes and failures, praise and blame. Illya was always there, being exactly what Napoleon needed him to be. Why would this be any different?

The pills began to do their work. Napoleon yawned, and then pulled his hand away from Illya’s hair to touch his lip again. “Dammit, I keep forgetting.”

Illya opened his eyes, and Napoleon grinned at the expression on his face. He looked like an annoyed cat whose owner has just had the temerity to stop stroking it. 

Napoleon felt sleep tugging on him. “Can I ask for another favor?”

Illya nodded. “Anything.”

Napoleon wondered if there was anyone who would promise him the world so unhesitatingly. He doubted it. “Can you hold me like you held me last night?”

Illya furrowed his brow. “Last night?”

“After you rescued me, and carried me outside. I woke up a little, and you were holding me. It felt good.”

Napoleon felt Illya’s scrutiny. He could understand the look. Every touch would be different now, every look would hold a new meaning. He waited.

Illya looked down at Napoleon’s body. Napoleon grinned as Illya’s face now took on his solving-a-puzzle expression. “I was behind you. You were laying here.” Illya patted himself on the chest. “Lying between my legs.” He gave the couch a frown. “The couch isn’t really deep enough for me to get behind you the way you are sitting.”

Napoleon grabbed a pillow. “Put this against the arm of the couch, and lie back. Then I’ll move.”

Illya nodded, giving the couch another dubious stare. He pressed the one pillow in place, and then, after a moment’s thought, he grabbed one of the couch cushions to make the padding deeper so he could be partially upright. He moved into position, spreading his legs, making room for Napoleon.

Napoleon was glad the pain pills were working. He slowly shifted until he could lean back against Illya. “You all right?”

Illya made a few careful adjustments, not wanting to jar Napoleon. “Yes. You?”

Napoleon relaxed fully, then turned a little on his left side, his ear pressed against Illya’s chest, the steady heartbeat a comforting noise. “I’m wonderful.”

Illya lifted his arms and very gently wrapped them around Napoleon’s chest, mindful of his broken ribs, and his wounded arm. Then he let out a rich and satisfied sigh. “Me too.”

The End


End file.
